


Power Play

by melanoms



Series: Power Play [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Drunk John Watson, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hostage Situations, Human Trafficking, John Watson is a Saint, Ketamine, Murder, Never Have I Ever, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Porn With Plot, Serial Killers, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spy!Reader, Strangulation, Trust Issues, Undercover, anthrax attack, dragging sherlock up and down baker street bc he deserves it, enemies to idiots to idiot lovers, everyone got shit faced, molly hooper deserves better, playing fast and loose with canon and timelines, reader is a badass, slow burning like it's an olympic sport
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 70
Words: 169,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanoms/pseuds/melanoms
Summary: You worked for years as an undercover agent to bust a human trafficking ring. But the Americans’ expansion to the UK leads you into unfamiliar territory. In your attempt to embed yourself into the new operation, Sherlock and John blow your cover. The arrogant detective thinks he can learn all your secrets from a single look. Little does he know that you’re the one learning his.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/You
Series: Power Play [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838776
Comments: 160
Kudos: 430





	1. Don’t Damage the Merchandise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, I'm American. Please pardon any inconsistencies in culture, phrasing, etc.

The rubber of her shoes squeaked to the rhythm of her pounding heart. Her chest heaved as it gasped for air, fearing that each breath might be its last.

Her captor swallowed her in his arms from behind. She stamped on his foot and jabbed her elbow into his abdomen. But it wasn’t enough. Even giving it her all, it wasn’t enough.

He yanked her hair and a pained cry escaped her throat. Although it barely traveled through the air due to the gag that restrained her aching lips. 

She bounced on the balls of her feet to pick up any momentum she could. She tried to leap from his steadfast grasp. But he pounded her lower back with a punch that broke her.

How it broke her.

She howled in agony and collapsed into his arms. He huffed and wrinkled his nose. With a growl, he dropped her limp body to the harsh cement. He shook his head and glanced at his superior.

“She’s a fighter, Ashworth. Too risky.”

“I know, Marcus. We can’t keep making these mistakes. It’s a waste of money and resources.”

Marcus threw the damaged merchandise over his shoulder with a grunt.

“Take care of it,” his boss commanded. “I won’t allow for any more of your errors in judgment.”

Marcus nodded gravely and left to do what he had done too many times before.

In the damp alley, you watched from around the corner as Marcus he arranged the body. He carefully unzipped the leather case and withdrew a syringe. After tossing her golden locks to and fro, he impaled the drug into the tender flesh of her inner arm.

She moaned softly and her eyelids started to flutter open. But Marcus withdrew a scarlet silk scarf from the pocket of his leather coat. He wrapped it around her throat. Your heart pounded against the inner walls of your chest for you to move. Yet your mind locked away its weak pleas. 

You couldn’t risk looking like a hero.

Your blood froze in your veins as you watched him choke the remaining life out of the doomed girl. Even after years of seeing the unimaginable, your eyelids still tried to close shut. But you couldn’t afford to lose focus. Not again.

Marcus rose to his feet and stuffed the scarf into its rightful pocket. He packaged up his leather bound death sentence and turned to walk away.

On cue, you stumbled out from hiding. Even though you were in a tight dress that left little to the imagination, the skirt’s fabric held just enough structure to keep some of your best secrets.

Scratching the back of your head, you glanced all around. When your eyes locked on her body, you shrieked. Marcus whipped around and his pupils blew wide open. 

“Oh my gosh! This, this woman!” you gasped. “We have to help her! Do, do, do you have a phone?”

He was careful. He was always careful. How could he let an inebriated fool, an American no less, stumble onto his perfectly executed scene? He couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes.

You plucked your phone out of your bag and lazily waved it at him. 

“Mine’s dead.”

He grinned. Just perfect.

Marcus withdrew his phone from his pocket and took a step forward.

“Yes, of course. I’ll call for help now.”

“Oh thank, thank you.” You hiccuped. “Do you know CPR? I don’t, don’t…”

You tripped over your heels and into his arms. He threw his hand over your mouth and you muffled a shriek into his gruff fingers.

They reeked of death.

You scraped the pavement with your heels and smacked his forearm. But he gripped your throat in the crook of his arm and pressed down on your windpipe. 

At the edge of losing consciousness, you closed your eyes and went limp in his grasp. Marcus carried your body to his black town car and tossed you in the back. He roared the engine to life and took off into the night.

You started counting.

Just perfect.

The next morning, John puttered into the living room with a groan. Still in his pyjamas, he threw on the kettle and slumped over. Face cradled in his hands and elbows on the countertop, he stared down the water as if his gaze alone could bring it to a screeching boil.

After an unbearable moment, it finally succumbed to his will. He mixed the water and milk in his mug and proceeded to mash the tea bag to hasten the arrival of his caffeinated salvation.

He collapsed in his chair and buried his nose in the paper. 

“Page seven,” Sherlock demanded.

John slammed the paper into his lap to see Sherlock sitting across from him, fully dressed, and grinning ear to ear. Palms pressed together and resting on his chin, he tapped fingertips and bore his eyes into John’s.

“How long have you been there?”

“The whole time.”

John blinked rapidly and scowled. It was far too early and he was not nearly caffeinated enough for this. Whatever it was. He threw the paper back to his face.

“Don’t act offended. It’s not my fault you didn’t notice.” 

John took a generous sip of tea and found himself reading the same sentence over again, the same sentence over again, the same sentence…

“Page seven.”

From behind the paper, John wrinkled his nose. Sherlock could probably see it for all he knew. Which, for the record, he did. Just not with his eyes.

John riffled through the pages to find a near miniscule article on page seven about another young person overdosing behind a local nightclub. Like the others, she was also unidentified.

“The fourth one in two weeks,” John murmured.

He lowered the paper to reveal Sherlock’s beaming face.

“Do you always have to look so pleased? It’s unsettling.”

“They’re not overdoses.”

“Just how do you—”

But before John could finish his utterly pointless sentence, Sherlock threw on his coat and bound to the door. He gripped the side of the doorway and turned to stare at John. Hollowing out his cheeks in an exasperated inhale, he blinked rapidly.

“Let’s go!”

John glanced at his half empty, no half full, definitely half full, cup of tea: the half that he’d never get to finish. With a sigh, he tossed the paper aside and rushed to get dressed. Then dashed behind the giddy detective.

At the crime scene, Anderson glowered at Sherlock.

“What are you even doing here?” 

In a good mood, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in return.

“This game of ours, it bores me.”

Then he strut right up to Lestrade.

“They’re not overdoses.”

“Please, Sherlock. We’re just finishing up here.”

The coroner grabbed the zipper to liberate the body from the disgrace of prying eyes. But Sherlock drew in a sharp inhale and glared at her.

“Don’t,” he commanded.

The coroner’s eyes flickered from Sherlock to Lestrade. He waved her on to continue. But Sherlock stared her down with an intensity that forced her to stay put. His eyes bore into Lestrade’s.

“How many people have to die for you to admit you’re wrong? I can wait. But can you?”

Greg released a slow, deep exhale and gave the coroner a nod. She took a step back to allow Sherlock to examine the body. He did a quick once over of the victim.

_ Lean build. Athletic. Plain clothes. _

He crouched down next to her. Rotating her arm for a closer look at the inside, he took a mental note and neatly filed it away.

_ Healthy skin. Single puncture. Painted nails.  _

A small glimmer from her shoelaces caught his curiosity. He twisted them around and narrowed his eyes.

_ Decorative charm. Football. _

He removed her shoe and sock then tilted his head when he saw her heel.

_ Tattoo. But not just any tattoo.  _

He scanned the length of her body and rested his gaze on her neck.

_ Ligature marks. Nearly indistinguishable.  _

Examination complete, Sherlock popped back to his feet and stared at his audience.

“Well?” John pestered.

“She was strangled.”

“Strangled?” Greg cocked an eyebrow.

“Slightest hint of ligature marks on her neck. Probably caused by something smooth, soft even. An attempt to minimize bruising. But failed.”

“Those? You can barely see them. The syringe was right next to her.”

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and pointed his finger, tracing the body up and down through the air.

“She’s fit. The charm on her shoe is a football. Most likely given to the whole team. She’s a student. Grown woman with a job wouldn’t bother. No, this is her life. She’s a star athlete.

“Her arm shows no other signs of repeated drug use. She wouldn’t abandon everything and overdose for a single high. And certainly not looking like that.”

Greg opened his mouth to speak. But Sherlock rolled his head back and stared him into submission.

“Her nails are painted. Her hair is colored. She cares about her appearance. But she’s dressed plainly. She didn’t come here to party and overdose as you so easily assumed. The killer brought her here, strangled her, and staged the scene. Quite inadequately if I say so myself.”

Lestrade crossed his arms and exchanged a quick glance with John. Sherlock smirked at them.

“Show me the needle and I guarantee you it’s pristine. It doesn’t belong to a junkie. It belonged to her killer.”

Greg unfolded his arms to call out for the evidence bag. Sure enough, the syringe was in immaculate condition: a one time death sentence. 

Sherlock yanked the bag from his hands. He unceremoniously withdrew the syringe and narrowed his eyes at the engraving on the side.

_ I don’t do drugs. I am drugs. _

He stuffed the syringe back in the evidence bag and shoved it into Lestrade’s available hands. Sherlock whipped out his phone and buried his nose in the screen, rifling through missing persons reports and ancient contacts.

“The others?”

“All university athletes,” he replied without looking up.

“Why them?”

Sherlock returned to the body and snapped a photo of the tattoo on her foot. 

“Because...”

He turned the screen to illuminate the dull minds of his usual crowd, revealing the barcode stamped into the victim’s heel.

“They’re merchandise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t do drugs. I am drugs” is a quote by surrealist artist Salvador Dalí.


	2. The Hardy Boys

Back at Marcus’ flat, things were going swimmingly for you. Tied and gagged in a chair, you watched the killer pace back and forth. 

He put your bag behind you on top of the media console. Taking your helpless appearance at face value, he did a splendidly inadequate job of searching you.

Hands behind his head, his breathing quickened through gritted teeth.

He snatched you up to replace his lousy selection: to make up for his erroneous ways. But now, he realized that he knew nothing about you. He didn’t do his research. He couldn’t keep killing and risk more exposure to the Company. But he couldn’t necessarily let you go.

What was Marcus to do?

You couldn’t have picked a better mark.

“‘oo ‘urt at ‘oman,” you mumbled through the gag.

He continued pacing. You shuffled in your chair and repeated yourself. And repeated yourself. And repeated yourself. And repeated yourself.

Finally, Marcus yanked the gag out of your mouth. You spat out frayed threads of scarlet silk.

“You hurt that woman,” you gasped.

“I’m going to do the same to you if you don’t shut up.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I can tell that you’re troubled. Was that the first time you killed someone?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re still feeling guilty?”

“I don’t mourn for the merchandise.”

“Merchandise?”

Marcus froze and his pupils went wide. He shouldn’t be telling you this. Yanking the gag from around your neck, he raised it to your lips. But you growled. You writhed back and forth and clamped down on his thumb.

“Bitch! I dispose of fighters like you.” Marcus yanked your hair back and you groaned.

There he goes. He picks fighters. He can’t pick the right merchandise. Doesn’t do his research. Can’t strike the balance between fit and docile. He was easy to stress. Just had to put pressure on those pain points.

“You just can’t handle a strong woman, you coward.”

“You think you’re so tough. But the moment we sell you, you break. You always break. The Americans have a system to take the fight out of you before you even hit the auction block. Too bad they didn’t get you while you were back home. I can make up for that.”

The Americans. The merger hadn’t gone through yet. This was way easier than you expected. 

He pulled a knife out of his table and walked back to you. You gulped at the sight of his unbridled sneer. 

“Your boss will be furious if you damage the merchandise.”

“Who says you’re merchandise? Who says I have a boss?”

Everything. Everything about you says that you work for someone else. But it was worth a shot.

Your lip trembled and you started taking rapid, shallow breaths. 

“My boyfriend knows where I am,” you blurted. “I’m always sharing my location with him. Kill me and they’ll know exactly who did it.”

“Your phone is dead.”

“Is it?”

Marcus wrinkled his brow as his breath caught in his throat. He rushed behind your back to snatch your phone from your bag. It was, indeed, charged. 

Swiveling around, he marched back over, knife in hand, and crouched to your eye level. He placed the blade under your chin and tilted your head upward. 

“What else did you lie about?”

“That’s it.”

Lie.

He pressed the blade deeper into your flesh, nearly puncturing the surface. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to. But it’s up to you if you want to gamble someone knowing exactly where I am right now. Moments before my body ends up in an alley.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“I don’t do drugs. Your staging will never work. They’ll find you. They’ll find your boss. They’ll get your entire operation. All because you bet incorrectly.”

“I don’t have anything here that ties me to them.”

Yes, you do. Of course you do. Everyone has a burn list.

“So you do have a boss? Who’s the liar now?”

Marcus snarled. You knew too much. He’d have to kill you. Perhaps this was just an opportunity for him to invent new ways to make sure they’d never find your body. He stepped behind you and drew the blade up to your throat. 

“I can help you pick better merchandise!” you screeched.

He froze.

“I can help you pick the right women who don’t fight, but are still healthy and strong. Ones you can control, but your buyers will want.”

“What makes you think I need you?”

“The women, they need someone they can trust. If you find their vulnerabilities, you can subdue them without damaging them. You’ll get a higher quality product with lower risk. Doesn’t it make more sense that they would trust me over you?”

You glanced from the blade and back to him. Marcus’ expression remained overall unchanged. But you could see the gears turning in his head. Now you were getting somewhere. You’d be embedded in no time.

“Spare my life and I’ll help you make it to the top.”

Take the bait. Take the bait. Take the bait.

After a few heaving breaths, the blade lowered from your throat and you let out a deep breath. He stepped back to face your frontside and crossed his arms, knife poking out of the crook of his arm.

“Why would you help me?”

“I’m not stupid. I’m obviously not getting out of here alive. My fate was sealed the moment I stumbled into that alley. I will help you lure the kinds of women your boss is looking for. Spare my life,” you gulped, “and you’ll own me.”

The corner of his mouth upturned in a grin. It made your stomach twist in knots. 

Just outside the door, John’s heart raced as he eavesdropped on your attempt to save yourself. He swallowed and glanced at Sherlock.

“We have to go in there,” he whispered.

“No.”

“What? He’s going to kidnap and do God knows what to her!”

“Yes, it’s what she wants.”

“Are you mad? Do you not hear how frightened she is? She’s selling herself to survive.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. John’s nostrils flared and he cleared his throat.

“Well, if you’re not going to do anything, I will.”

John assaulted the door to burst through. From behind his back, Sherlock rolled his eyes. But he quickly set in motion to attack your alleged captor. Sherlock ambushed Marcus with a firm punch to his cheek. The knife went flying to the other side of the room.

They tousled in a rhythmic display of elbows to chins, fists to face, and heels to toes. You squirmed to break free from your bindings. John ran behind you and pulled out a switchblade to cut your zip ties.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. We’re going to get you out of this,” he cooed.

The moment your hands were free, you shot up from your chair and jammed your elbow into his throat. He reeled his head from the sudden impact of your assault and stumbled backward.

Sherlock whipped his head around and raised an eyebrow at John. But his attention was quickly brought back to Marcus. He punched a blow to your captor’s chin that knocked him out in an instant. 

You dove to your bag to withdraw your gun from the hidden compartment. John slowly rose to his feet. You stood behind him and cocked your gun. At the familiar sound, he obediently put his hands behind his head.

Sherlock took a step forward from Marcus’ unconscious body. But you shot him a look that could kill.

“DON’T,” you commanded. “Don’t take another step forward.”

He raised his hands in surrender. You glowered at him. Your gaze tethered to his in an unbreakable bond.

“Who are you? You’re clearly not law enforcement. Not competition.” You pointed to Marcus with your elbow then nodded to John. “Soft touch of this one proved that.”

“American.” He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m the one with a gun to your partner’s head. I think you’d best answer me.”

“Ah yes, proving my point.” Sherlock grinned. “Why are we always held up at gunpoint by you Americans? Can you, just once, surprise me with something new? A sword? Harpoon?”

You cocked an eyebrow. “Who says I’m not still surprising?”

“Please. You chose to get caught. He saw it as an opportunity to replace the damaged merchandise. Your involvement, thus far, is uninteresting.

“He, however,” Sherlock pointed to Marcus, “used a type of cocaine that few can get. From a man who calls himself Dalí. Legend says that his concoctions can take you to the edge of transcendence and back.

“He only takes a select clientele. Can’t let any old junkie tarnish his brand and bodies are bad for business. Unless, the product is in the hands of someone who wants to discreetly ensure death. Didn’t take long to narrow down the list.”

“I’m uninteresting to you?”

“Spies think themselves clever. But your deception is trite. Feigned weakness? Uninteresting. Even if it was an effective way to interrogate.”

“Interrogate?” John murmured.

“Yes, of course. She’s CIA. She was the one interrogating him. Do keep up, John.”

“What makes you say I’m CIA?”

“Saying your boyfriend was tracking you wasn’t an entire lie. He’s your handler. By calling him your boyfriend you’re projecting your feelings about him. Even though everything from your training says you can’t. But oh, love’s a fickle thing. Judging by the softening of your eyes and tension in your jaw, I’m correct.”

You recomposed your expression. 

“I was willing to let this man, what were your words, _own you_. But John insisted we come to your rescue.”

“You think yourself my hero?”

“I don’t need to tell you that heroes don’t exist. I assure you I’d never be dull enough to call myself by such a hopeful label as a hero.”

“Yes, only ordinary people need to believe they’ll be saved.”

You bore into those hungry, aching eyes. How they desperately tried to escape the hollow loneliness that lurked behind the surface. Even as they tried to extract information from yours. The corner of your lip upturned in a grin. 

“Well, Mister…”

“Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes, I believe you when you say that you are no hero.” You smirked. “But then again, neither am I. And I certainly don’t need the Hardy Boys destroying everything I’ve worked for.”

You clamped onto the back of John’s jacket and threw him forward. He went crashing into Sherlock, igniting an awkward dance of fumbling feet and assertive grunts. You wondered how long they’d been waiting for that.

You shot Marcus in the back of the head, extinguishing the image of your face from his mind and life. Then snatched your bag and tossed your gun inside to bolt into the hallway.

Sherlock flung John from his body and scrambled to his feet to chase you. Upon the sound of his footsteps, you started to hike up the side of your skirt. Sherlock tilted his head. 

But before he could dwell, you spun around and shot him with your taser. Now that it was no longer securely cushioned against your thigh.

His body convulsed and fell to the floor with a thud. You walked over and examined his scrunched face. His hands floated through the air in a weak attempt to regain his typical steadfast grasp on the world. 

You tilted your head over his struggling body, sparing a luxurious moment to enjoy his face like this.

“Guns bore me, too.”

You crouched down next to him and stroked the side of his cheek. He turned his head to you, eyelids fluttering and lip twitching.

“Your desperation for attention makes you hopelessly trite. I was the one interrogating you. Do keep up, Mr. Holmes. Am I interesting enough to you now?”

You sprang to your feet and disappeared in a blur. Even if that blur was only through the eyes of an utterly shocked Sherlock. 

John dashed out of the deadman’s flat just in time to take in the sight of him groaning in the hallway and your ankle vanishing from view.

An interesting vision, indeed.


	3. There Are No Heroes Here

Back at 221B, the entirety of Sherlock’s focus was locked on a small black notebook. He riffled through the pages and carefully studied every word, character, pen stroke, and line. 

John paced back and forth and dragged his hands over his face.

“Human trafficking. An international human trafficking ring.”

He looked at Sherlock who only turned the page.

“She was undercover. She was going undercover and we blew it. I blew it.” He stopped in his tracks. “No wait, you knew. You knew and you didn’t say anything.”

“I did. You didn’t listen.” Sherlock didn’t remove his eyes from the notebook. John groaned and stared at the ceiling. He walked next to the table and put his hands on his hips.

“Are we going too far? Perhaps you should call Mycroft.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

John exhaled sharply through gritted teeth. He peered at the pages that entranced Sherlock’s attention.

“What is that?”

“Her notes.”

“Her notes? How did you get those.”

“She leaned down just to make a point. People make mistakes when they’re just showing off.”

“By people, you mean everyone but yourself?” John traced accusatory circles through the air in front of Sherlock.

“Hm?”

John snatched the notebook from the table. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glared at him.

“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.” John swallowed and waved the notebook in front of him. “I know you think yourself a mastermind. But this, this might be out of depth for even the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “But not her?”

“She is a trained CIA operative for this exact purpose. She has resources, backup, and experience that we don’t.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stole the notebook once again. John crossed his arms with a huff. He glanced at the floor and smirked.

“No,” John laughed. 

Sherlock cracked the notebook back open.

“Don’t tell me this is about her. You’re, you’re just doing this so you can beat her. So you can win whatever twisted, little game you started.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. But his concentration remained otherwise transfixed on your notes. 

“Sherlock! This is not the time to play games. There are people, kids, who are being kidnapped and _sold._ Stop trying to impress her with your insufferable intellect and get over yourself!”

Sherlock shot up from his seat and glowered at John. His upper lip twitched and he growled lowly.

“I am not playing games. I am trying to focus. And I can’t do that with you screeching at me at every opportunity. Shut up or get out.”

John puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. Pursing his lips, he hung his head and gently shook it side to side.

“You’re right. People make mistakes when they’re just showing off.”

He grabbed his coat and left, slamming the door behind him. He headed to the grocer’s for some fresh air. 

There wasn’t enough in the flat anymore.

Standing in front of an aisle of milk, John vacantly stared at the bottles and cartons. 

Should he contact Mycroft himself? Was Sherlock in over his painfully massive head? Or did he know more that he wasn’t letting on? 

If only he listened to Sherlock and didn’t barge into that flat. He wouldn’t be in this bloody mess in the first place. Sighing, John was just about to step away. But his inner turmoil was interrupted by a cool voice next to him.

“So many different options…”

John glanced over to see you examining the milk across the shelves. You continued to look forward as if he wasn’t there.

“Do you get nonfat to stay healthy? Or whole? They always say different things these days.”

“You won’t get it back from him.”

“Or do you go the non-dairy route?” You picked up a carton and turned it in your hand to face the nutrition facts upward. Not that you were reading them. You handed the carton to him.

“What do you think?” you asked with raised eyebrows.

“Uh, I think you should trust your gut.”

“And what does your gut say?”

John swallowed. He put the milk back on the shelf. You continued to pick up different cartons and examine the labels, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Because my gut says that picking the wrong kind could have terrible consequences. From lactose intolerance to death. Depending on your bodily aversions.”

“What do you want?”

“I had a roommate who loved to take my creamer. Drove me crazy.” You wrinkled your brow, fascinated by a particular brand of soymilk. 

“What he didn’t think about was how I needed that creamer in my coffee. Because if I didn’t have the right cup of coffee that day, I simply couldn’t function at work. Decaffeinated me is a dangerous me. People get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“He didn’t think, or maybe he didn’t care, about how other people would pay the price for his selfishness.”

Your eyes flickered to John’s curious face.

“Why not just talk to him about it?”

“Because…” You set a carton back on the shelf. You arranged it so it was perfectly aligned with the others. 

“Men like him believe that matters of the heart slow things down. But in this case, he was wrong. The fastest way to get him to stop stealing from me was to talk to his girlfriend. Told her about the burden he put on everyone around him. I could trust her to make the right decision.”

You smiled at him with a sparkle behind your eyes. John raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. The softness in your face, the kindness, it surprised him.

“She cared about the people who got hurt. And he stopped. Now _that_ is what I call efficiency.”

John cleared his throat. “So what exactly do you want me to do?”

“If you could just be so kind as to point me in the direction of the creamer.”

He stared at the floor and clasped his hands behind his back. He shifted his weight from the balls of his feet to his heels for a moment. But after a few uncomfortable tilts, he looked back at you and pointed beyond your shoulder.

“Right behind you.”

You turned your head and laughed.

“Oh, of course!” 

You reached out to shake his hand. 

“Thank you for your help.”

You plucked a carton of creamer from the shelf and walked away. John let out a deep breath and looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand. Next to the address was a single request.

_22:00. Alone._

He swallowed and left the shop otherwise empty handed. Once outside, he took a deep breath and nodded before heading back to 221B. 

John trotted up the stairs to find Sherlock reclined on the couch. His eyes were still glued to your notebook.

“Did she appeal to your humanity?” Sherlock called out.

“What?”

He propped himself upright.

“Did she appeal _to your humanity_? Tug on those heart strings? Make you feel guilty for stalling her work?”

“She needs it back. What use is it to you anyway?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Nothing! Then what’s this about?”

“Yet. Nothing _yet._ I’m still deciphering her code.”

John rolled his eyes and threw his coat over a chair. He yanked the notebook from Sherlock’s grasp.

“That’s it. We’re not doing this just so you can showboat. You can flirt when there aren’t people’s lives at stake. I’m giving it back.”

“She’s just using you. It’s what she’s designed to do.” He wrinkled his nose. 

“Yes, God forbid intelligent people could also care. That they could be efficient and give a damn. You’re just jealous that she beat you _and_ she’s not a robot.”

“You’re attracted to her. That’s why you said I was flirting.”

John pursed his lips and shook his head.

“You know, Sherlock. Sometimes your inability to understand people really does slow you down.”

That night, you crossed your arms and tapped your foot in the abandoned warehouse. You wondered if John would come with Sherlock or if he would follow him.

With or without John’s consent, he’d be there. Which worked in your favor because you had to put an end to this child’s play.

Thankfully, your curiosity didn’t have to last long. John walked through the door and outstretched his arm to return your notebook. You received it with a smile and nod.

“Thank you,” you said.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. You were just being a hero.”

John looked at the cement floor and tittered. “No, I’m no hero either.”

“Then what are you?”

“Just a man trying to do the right thing.”

“And Mr. Holmes?”

He grimaced. “The same. Just in a different way than most.”

You tucked your notebook in the pocket of your leather jacket. You took a deep breath and tensed your muscles. 

“I can’t afford to let his misguided sense of morality compromise my mission.”

“We won’t. We’re done.”

“He’s not.”

You and John stared at each other for a few long breaths. The tension weighed down your racing heart, as if to ground you back to reality. Eyes locked on John, you called out into the cavernous warehouse.

“Or would you like to speak for yourself, Mr. Holmes?”

John closed his eyes and hung his head. Of course.

Sherlock stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself. You crossed your arms and cocked an eyebrow.

“You love a dramatic entrance.”

“And you are predictable. Abandoned warehouse? Really?”

“I’m not here to impress you. Just to make a point. You need to leave this to me.”

“For the greater good?” Sherlock smirked.

“For yourself. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. Sherlock took slow, calculating steps forward. John swallowed as he watched the two untamed creatures close in on each other.

“Your protection is no use to me,” Sherlock droned.

“You’re always so certain.” You leaned in even closer. “In my line of work, that’s a death sentence. You can’t be certain of anything.”

“You seem awfully certain.”

“Of what?”

“That my involvement will hinder your success. That I am so woefully helpless like you make men assume of you.”

“I’m sure you’re more than just a pretty face, Mr. Holmes. But considering the past twenty four hours, the evidence tells me you’re out of your depth.”

“Miniscule sample size.”

“What? You think you can prove yourself to me with more time?”

“I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. Certainly not to the likes of a hired liar. But I do know that even your tricks will only get you so far.”

“Why are you so insistent on making this about you?”

John cleared his throat. “He does that with everyth—”

Without breaking eye contact with you, Sherlock held up a finger and silenced John. 

“Because, Agent. I am now interested.”

“And what will it take for you to become _uninterested_? To leave this alone? For good.”

“Give me 48 hours.” Sherlock leaned closer. You could feel his breath upon your lips. “I’ll get you so deeply embedded within that operation that you’ll be screaming there’s no way out.”

The corner of your lip upturned in the slightest grin. “Are you sure you can last that long with me around?”

He tilted his head forward to brush his lips against your ear. As if by his command, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end.

“You’ll be begging for more time. Just you wait.”


	4. Name of the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gets dark, friends. Sherlock and John will go undercover with the reader. They have to commit to the part. There's (consensual) violence against reader to keep their cover.

On the way to 221B Baker Street, you rested your chin in your palm and stared out the window of the taxi. John sat next to you while Sherlock studied you through narrow eyes at the other window seat.

John cleared his throat in a valiant attempt to cut the tension.

“So, how long have you, er, been doing this.”

You continue to stare out of the window. “We don’t have to engage in small talk, John.”

He pursed his lips and stared at a mustard stain on the carpet. You sucked in a breath and turned to face him.

“I’m sorry. I just don’t talk about work.”

“Right, of course.”

“I read your blog. You two are quite the duo. What was your favorite case so far?”

“Hard to say. But I really enjoyed—”

“What did I get wrong?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Excuse you?” You raised your eyebrows.

“What did I get wrong? There’s always something.”

“I didn’t think that word existed in your vocabulary.”

“CIA, the handler, feelings for him, interrogation techniques,” he murmured as he narrowed his eyes at you.

“So, John. Your favorite case?”

“Right. We went to—”

“The handler. Your feelings. Is she a woman?”

You exhaled sharply and leaned over to pierce your eyes into Sherlock.

“Have you not learned your lesson to shut up around me? Stop telling me everything about you. I don't want to know.”

“Oh? And what am I telling you?”

“Unlike you, Mr. Holmes, I don’t parade my mental processes for everyone to witness. I understand discretion. It’s more efficient than showboating and the name of the game for me. And I refuse to play the one you are.”

“And yet, you’re here.”

“Don’t confuse my presence with interest. I’m running out the clock so you can stop interfering.”

He opened his mouth to speak. But you cut him off.

“The only words I want out of that pretty little mouth are how you will help me.”

John shifted in his seat. His eyes flickered between the two of you. He grimaced at Sherlock. But the corner of his mouth upturned in the slightest smirk when his eyes landed on you.

The taxi stopped outside of their flat and John paid the cabbie. You followed them up the steps and took a deep breath once you were inside. Your eyes flickered throughout their home, dutifully filing away necessary information. 

Crossing your arms, you leaned on one hip and raised an eyebrow.

“Well, Mr. Holmes? Now’s your turn to dazzle me.”

But Sherlock instantly buried himself in his phone and typed away. You glanced at John who only sighed.

“He does this.”

“The silent treatment?”

“Yes, general childish behavior.”

“It must get you two in trouble.”

“We...manage. Do you have anything else to pick up?” 

“No, I have everything that I need.”

“Right then. Well, you’re welcome to take my room. I can sleep on the couch.”

“Nonsense. I’ve slept in worse than your living room.”

“Please, I insist.”

“The worst place I could sleep here is in Mr. Holmes’ bed. I’d have to be quite troubled to end up there. The couch is perfect.”

John gave you a curt nod. The two of you redirected your attention to Sherlock who slammed the send button on his phone with a growl.

“Are you done pouting?” you asked.

“We have a meeting tomorrow.”

“With whom?” 

“Our new buyers.”

“Buyers?” John asked. “What are we selling?”

He wrinkled his brow. But his eyes quickly went wide and he gulped. He redirected his gaze to you as Sherlock smirked.

“Her.”

“You two? Posing as sellers? There’s no way.”

“I assure you,” Sherlock took a step toward you. “We are compelling.”

“How is anyone going to believe that the famed Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are suddenly interested in selling women on the side? Just how did you get this meeting anyway?”

“Dalí.”

John tilted his head. “You know, you know the legendary cocaine dealer?”

With thin pressed lips, Sherlock glanced at him then back to you.

“Tomorrow morning at ten.”

You narrowed your eyes and sucked in a breath. 

“Well, Mr. Holmes. Consider me impressed.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you. Just making a point.”

“Which is?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I only need a moment to, what did you call it,  _ dazzle _ you.”

You breathed a laugh and crossed your arms.

“You may be insufferable, but that won’t be enough. You’ll have to commit to your covers.”

“I told you, we are—”

“Compelling. I heard you. But I’m telling you, you have to match them evil for evil. And if the pressure is on, you can’t back out. You have to be even more committed.”

Your eyes flickered between Sherlock and John.

“Can you really pull this off? There is no room for error.” You narrowed your eyes at Sherlock. “Or undeserved certainty.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But John beat him to it.

“We won’t mess this up for you. Not again.”

You stared at John for a few breaths. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at your expression. Fear. For the first time, he could see a flash of fear behind your eyes.

You drew in a deep inhale and nodded. 

“Okay, you boys better rough me up a bit.”

“What? We can’t do that,” John protested.

“What did I just tell you? You have to commit. I can’t be too pristine.” You gestured up and down your body. “But you can’t hurt me enough so that I’ll be unappealing to them. I can’t be damaged goods.”

John blinked rapidly. You sighed.

“They won’t believe anything that’s too good to be true.”

John puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. He frowned and cast remorseful eyes on you. Sherlock took a step forward. You flinched as he enclosed in on your space. 

He unwrapped the scarf from his neck and placed it around yours. Using the soft fabric as leverage, he drew you closer. Your feet scuffed against the floorboards as your heart started pumping faster.

Sherlock slowly twisted his scarf to apply more pressure. His eyes were firmly locked on yours the whole time, noticing the exact rate at which your pupils blew wide open. It was tight, but not painful; just uncomfortable.

Studying your every muscle in your face, he continued to twist. His pace was gentle, but the impact was firm against your throat. Just as your breath started to struggle to reach your lungs, he paused. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed.

You tilted your chin downward to give him the slightest nod. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“Tell me when.”

Then he tightened the scarf even more. You clenched your fists as it got harder to breathe. You blinked rapidly to withstand the fabric crushing your windpipe. 

John stepped forward. But you looked at him with wide eyes and shook your head with the minuscule range of motion you did have. Your eyes started to water. But after what should have been a few breaths, you slapped Sherlock’s forearm and he freed your airway. 

When you threw yourself back from him, his scarf unfurled from your neck. Your breath heaved as you gasped, pumping oxygen through your aching lungs and thumping heart. 

Hand on your throat, you buckled over and whimpered. John rushed next to you and put one hand on your back and the other to your wrist. Sherlock’s lip twitched as his eyes bore into the floor.

“Are you okay?” John asked.

You put your hand over your chest and nodded. You breathed deeply a few times then smiled at him. He tried to smile back.

“You better sleep,” Sherlock commanded. “Can’t let our merchandise look haggard.”

John cleared his throat and shot him a look. But he took no notice and strutted to his room. When he slammed the door, John turned back to you with concerned eyes.

“Are you sure about this?”

“It was going to happen whether you were a part of it or not. Honestly, I should be there now.”

“Sorry about that again.” John shook his head.

You smiled. “You were a man doing the right thing. Just don’t be one tomorrow.”

“Yeah, right,” he tittered. He pursed his lips and swallowed. “Sleep well then.”

“You too, John. See you tomorrow.”

You woke up the next morning to the sunlight dancing through the living room. You took a deep breath, relieved that you didn’t have any dreams. As if your psyche was protecting you.

Or it knew that you had far worse in store.

It seemed like no one else was awake yet. You bolted from the couch and rushed to the bathroom.

Examining your neck in the mirror, you approved of the bruising. You traced your fingertips over the discoloration and bit your lip. Your eyes started to mist with the threat of tears.

Yes, you’ve endured far worse physically. You’ve been hurt by your own—for a cover and not. But something about this felt different. 

You splashed cool water on your face and patted it dry with a towel. Pressing your fingers to your temples, you pursed your lips. No, this was not the time to dwell. You were already behind your schedule—even if you were ahead of Sherlock’s.

As if he heard your thoughts, you swung the door open to see him standing right in front of you. His face was utterly expressionless. He glanced at your neck and back to your eyes.

“It worked,” you grunted.

“Good.”

Then he walked off.

You spent the rest of the morning in deafening silence. The quiet was only interrupted when John checked if you wanted anything to eat. 

“Normally, I know better than to eat. But it might help this time. Just a little though.”

John smiled and put together a small breakfast. He set the plate on the table with a mug of coffee. 

“I don’t know if we have the right cream.” He smirked.

You laughed and shook your head.

“I don’t actually drink it with cream. Just some sugar would be great.”

All morning, Sherlock only sat in his chair, entranced in his own thoughts. He didn’t look at you. And honestly, you preferred it that way. 

When you took your dishes to the sink, you dropped your mug. John dashed over to help you pick it up. 

“You’re bleeding let me help you.”

Sherlock glanced over from the corner of his eye.

“No, I’ve got it. Let me just go to the bathroom and I’ll clean it up.”

John frowned.

“Please, I’m fine. Trust me on this.”

He nodded and freed you to take care of your hand. When you re-emerged from the bathroom, you handed him your leather jacket. On top of it was your gun, a few fake IDs, fake passports, your notebook, your remaining cash, and your taser.

“I took care of everything else. But keep this safe for me?”

“Of course.”

John left to secure your belongings in his room. When he came back, Sherlock sprung to his feet.

“Time to go,” he announced.

You crossed your arms and nodded. He grabbed his coat but handed you his scarf. You stared at it in his hands.

“Can’t have the cabbie wondering,” he answered.

You tentatively unfurled the scarf from his hand and wrapped it around your neck. You smiled at John. Although he could tell you were trying too hard. 

Then the three of you abandoned the flat in favor of your next adventure.


	5. Loyalty Must Be Bought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the dark tonal warning. Sherlock and John undercover and playing the part. Violence against reader.

Outside of the abandoned construction site, John wrapped a zip tie around the back of your wrist. 

“Too tight?” he asked.

“Tighter.”

He paused.

“Tighter, John. These guys are sadists. This is less about me and more about how you look to them.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder.

“Please tell me you can do this.”

He nodded and tightened your bindings, causing your shoulder blades to jerk back together. 

“I’m fine,” you grunted. You blinked a few times and tilted your head back to look at the sky, soaking in the feeling of the sun on your skin.

Sherlock stood a few meters away with his hands behind his back. He carefully examined the various entrances, exits, and calculated different possible outcomes for this deal. Failure was not one of them.

John led you next to him. You rolled your shoulders as much as you could.

“Alright, Hardy Boys. Let’s hope that I’ll never have to see you again.” You glared at Sherlock. “I  _ won’t _ have to see you again after this, correct?”

“As agreed. We’re done. For good.”

You nodded and allowed John to escort you to the meeting site, ignoring the churning in your stomach.

In front of Ashworth and his crew, the criminal glanced you up and down. You hung your head and stared at the ground. A few whimpers escaped your trembling lips.

He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

“You’re only here because of Dalí. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right now.”

“You know we have something of interest.”

Ashworth scowled. “She’s impressive, I’ll admit. Healthy, athletic. Almost too clean. Why would I go so far as to believe that the great Sherlock Holmes would have the stomach for my line of work?”

He stepped forward so his nose was a mere breath away from Sherlock’s.

“Jim Moriarty says you’re on the side of the angels.”

“And if you talk to him, then you should also know that I am not one of them.”

Without breaking eye contact from Ashworth, Sherlock lowered the scarf around your throat. You flinched with a squeak. He held his breath at the sound.

Ashworth’s eyes flickered to your bruised neck. He raised his eyebrows.

“I’m bored of chasing crime,” Sherlock continued. “Why chase anymore when I could simply have it for myself. Now are we here to do business or is this just foreplay?”

He removed his fingers from your neck. You whimpered and hung your head.

Ashworth’s mouth upturned in a sneer. “Alright, Holmes. Say I am interested. You still brought me damaged merch.”

Sherlock huffed. “She’ll heal. Her body at least.”

“Is she a fighter?”

“Trust me, I choked the fight right out of her.” He glared at you. Nostrils flaring, he growled lowly. “On your knees.”

You whined a pained cry from the back of your throat. But you did as he commanded and kneeled in front of Ashworth. The criminal stroked the side of your face. 

You threw your head down and your chest started convulsing. He retracted his hand and glowered at Sherlock in offense. But you vomited, careful to avoid his pristine leather loafers. 

“Please, I just, I just want to go home,” you cried.

John balled his hands into fists. His knuckles turned white in an instant.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at Ashworth. Ashworth crossed his arms and nodded.

“How much?”

“Nothing.”

Your breath caught in your throat. What was he doing?

Ashworth scoffed. “Nothing?”

“Consider her a gift. A beginning to a new business relationship.”

What. Was. He. Doing. 

You were done. He promised that you were done. 

“Holmes, I’m a grateful man. But not stupid. There is no free lunch. Especially when the angels are nowhere in sight. Perhaps you are really one of them.”

He scowled at John.

“Just look at your lackey. He can hardly stomach this.”

John grit his teeth and slowly tilted his head to stare down Ashworth, nostrils flaring.

“What I can’t stomach is you wasting our time,” John growled.

“I’m wasting your time?”

“Sherlock, this man clearly isn’t here to do business. We should invest elsewhere.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave John a curt nod. 

Ashworth wrinkled his nose. “You? You have other connections? I can’t imagine.”

John heaved an exasperated sigh. Then he withdrew a gun, your gun, and slammed it against your head. Ashworth’s men instantly withdrew their weapons.

You curled your body even tighter and shrieked. 

“No, please! I don’t want to die. Please God, let me live.”

John glared at Ashworth.

“We have plenty more where she came from. She’s no use to us. And if she’s no use to you, I might as well just shoot her now. We’re here to do business. Not play games. So if you’re not serious, then we’re better off leaving you with a body than our generosity.”

Ashworth’s eyes went wide as he stared at John. He rammed the gun harder into your head, making you whimper helpless pleas for salvation.

John scowled. “Well? Are you serious? Or wasting our time with child’s play?”

Ashworth snickered and looked back at Sherlock.

“I like him,” he laughed. “Can I have them both? Lost one of my men recently and could use a much needed upgrade.”

“Not. For. Sale.”

He shrugged. “Everything is for sale with the right price, Holmes. But yes. For now, I will start by accepting your  _ gift. _ ”

He gestured for his men to lower their weapons. They obeyed.

Ashworth outstretched his hand to seal the deal. Sherlock had to control his grip to not break it.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Holmes. I look forward to the future of our business relationship.”

Sherlock swallowed as he clenched his jaw.

“As do I.”

Ashworth’s men seized your body and dragged you away. You screamed and weakly squirmed in their grasp. Sherlock and John turned to walk away from the horrific scene. But they stopped in their tracks at the sound of your voice piercing through the air.

“You promised me!” you shrieked. “We had a deal and you promised me!”

Sherlock’s breath hitched. John bit his bottom lip and stared at Sherlock. But he pressed onward to escape the sound of your accusations.

Ashworth stroked your face and you wrinkled your nose at his touch. He lowered the scarf around your neck to appreciate Sherlock’s handiwork one more time.

“Sweetheart, you should know right now that no one is going to save you. There is no such thing as heroes or kept promises. Just business.”

The silence was suffocating on the ride back to 221B Baker Street. John and Sherlock vacantly stared out the window. Nearly home, John closed his eyes and turned to Sherlock.

“Did we do the right thing?”

“It’s not our concern anymore,” Sherlock replied, his voice hollow as he continued to look out the window.

“But you said a ‘new business relationship.’ We can’t keep this up.”

“We had to give her away.”

“But you heard what she said about it being too good to be true. Let alone saying that you’d stay out of this.”

With gritted teeth, Sherlock snapped his eyes to John. Nostrils flaring, his upper lip twitched in anguish.

“And just how much did you want to sell her for, John? Hundred thousand? Two? One million? What’s she worth to you? Do tell me.”

He wrapped his coat closer around his body, missing his scarf a great deal at the particular moment in time. He turned away from John to resume staring out the window.

“I’ll have nothing to do with her blood money,” he grumbled.

John took a deep breath and nodded.

The men sat in silence for the rest of the ride.

And the rest of the evening.

The next morning, John opened his laptop and set his mug down next to it. For some unknown reason, he decided to drink coffee instead of his usual tea. Apparently, his taste buds longed for it with just a bit of sugar.

He sipped away and checked email. Mindlessly scrolling through a few cases, he eventually gave up. With nothing of interest in the inbox, he clicked through a variety of news sites. But he couldn’t keep his focus for long.

With a sigh, he typed in the URL for his blog. He started a new draft and stared at the blinking cursor. It was mocking him. He was certain it was mocking him.

John looked down and shook his head. He raised his hand to close the taunting machine. But the screen flashed a cryptic message before his eyes.

_ You think yourself so clever, Holmes. _

John’s eyes when wide.

“Sh-Sherlock.” he whispered. He repeated himself a few decibels louder, given that Sherlock wasn’t in the room.

_ Thought you could give us a CIA agent and we wouldn’t find out? _

“SHERLOCK!”

The screen flashed to reveal a live feed of you bound and beaten in a chair. Your face was cut and bruised. You were bleeding from cuts across your collarbone. You fluttered your eyelids as you rolled your head back and let out a few pained coughs.

Sherlock dashed into the room. Eyes locked on the screen, he snatched up the computer and paced back and forth.

“Sherlock, we have to get her out. We don’t even know where she is.”

Sherlock placed the laptop back on the table and turned around. Throwing his fingers to his temples, he slammed his eyes shut.

How did this happen? How did your cover get blown? Didn’t matter. Where were you? Clearly not at the meeting site. Somewhere secluded. Somewhere with internet access. Somewhere.

Somewhere. Somewhere. Somewhere. 

“We have to do something!” John cried out.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

He whipped out his phone and texted Dalí.

_ What did you tell him? SH _

The reply was instant.

_ I only keep secrets of current clients, Holmes. Loyalty must be bought. You should know better. —D _

Sherlock released a guttural cry and threw his phone across the room. He didn’t overtly say you were CIA. But something, something, something he said tipped him off. What was it? 

No, didn’t matter.

What did matter was that he had to find you.

“Sherlock,” John pleaded.

“I TOLD YOU TO SHUT UP!”

“No, Sherlock. Look.”

Sherlock spun around to glare at the screen. A man came into view and started beating the side of your face. He pulverized each side mercilessly with his fist. Your neck snapped back and forth to his will. Then he finished with a punch to the gut that took all the air from your lungs and made your eyes water.

The man walked to the screen and sneered. 

“Since you boys are so fond of games, let's play one now. You find her before we beat her to death and we’ll make another deal for our new  _ business  _ relationship.”

Sherlock turned away from the laptop and closed his eyes.

Where would they take you? How long could you withstand them beating you? You probably had a high tolerance for physical pain. But he couldn’t count on you to brunt the price of his mistake, mistake, mistake...

“MISTAKE!” he screamed.

...for long. No, he had to find you. He had to find you. And fast. He thought about Dalí and his locations for deals. They had to be close, right? Unless they had a separate place just to torture you.

No.

His stomach dropped.

The man on the screen wasn’t wearing a mask. You weren’t getting out of there alive even if he did find you ‘in time.’

There had to be something, something else that he was missing. Another clue, another clue, another clue.

He whipped around to stare at the laptop on the table. Laptop. Table. Mug. Mug. Mug. Mug. 

The mug. 

You dropped the mug yesterday morning. You cut your hand. You weren’t a clumsy fool. 

You dropped the mug and cut your hand.

“Her mug…” he muttered rapidly. “Her mug, her mug. John, her mug. She dropped her mug and cut her hand. But why?”

“It, it was an accident.”

“No, no she’s far too clever to be clumsy with dishes. She cut her hand. What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. She just went to the bathroom.”

“And then?”

“And then she came out and handed me her stuff.”

Sherlock raced to John’s room. Glancing all around, he panted as he waited for John to keep up.

“WHERE? Where is her stuff?”

John brought out a box that contained your belongings. Sherlock riffled through your jacket pockets. 

Empty.

He shuffled through your IDs and passports.

Nothing of interest.

He snatched up your notebook and flipped the pages. He still didn’t know your cipher. He didn’t know your cipher. Why didn’t he know your cipher?

But wait.

He didn’t know your cipher.

And you knew it. 

There had to be another way, another way, another way that you left a message.

You cut your hand. You cut your hand. But why? Why cut your hand?

He grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him furiously.

“What did she say? What else did she say to you?”

“Ah, um. Keep her stuff safe for her.”

“Anything? Anything else?”

“Just that she took care of everything else.”

Sherlock released John and shot upright. 

Everything else. Everything else. Everything else. What was he missing? What was missing from that box? Your extra clothes, your purse, your phone.

Your phone.

“John. Where is her phone?”

“She didn’t give it to me.”

“We have to find it.”

They tumbled down the stairs and started to tear apart the flat. John checked inside all of the mugs. Sherlock lifted the back of the toilet and threw out everything from under the sink.

No, no. Your phone. He had to find your phone. You were in trouble and he had to find your phone.

Trouble.

You were in trouble. You were in trouble. You were in trouble.

Trouble.

Your voice echoed through his mind.

_ You: It must get you two in trouble. _

_ John: We...manage. Do you have anything else to pick up? _

Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

_ You: Nonsense. I’ve slept in worse than your living room. The worst place I could sleep here is in Mr. Holmes’ bed. I’d have to be quite troubled to end up there. _

Sherlock bolted to his bedroom. John chased after him. Sherlock shook out the covers and sheets on his bed. He yanked the pillow from their cases. He glanced behind the frame and between the wall. He patted the sides of the mattress as he walked the length of his bed.

Then Sherlock threw himself to his knees to check underneath the mattress to find…

Your phone.

Tucked between the mattress and the bed frame.

He seized it from its hiding spot and awakened the screen. It didn’t have a passcode. 

Peculiar.

But there was a single application on your phone.

FindMe.

A GPS system used to track lost dogs. 

He hammered his finger to the screen to open it.

Only to be mocked with a login screen.

Username: Efficiency

Password:

Password. Password. Password.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. He didn’t have time for this. You didn’t have time for this.

He couldn’t wait. 

Efficiency. Efficiency. Efficiency.

“EFFICIENCY!” he bellowed. John furrowed his brow and glanced down. Efficiency...

_ You: I understand discretion. It’s more efficient than showboating and the name of the game for me. _

Sherlock typed in ‘discretion’.

Incorrect. Two attempts remaining.

_ John: Intelligent people could be efficient and give a damn. _

He had to have heard that from you.

He typed in ‘giveadamn’.

Incorrect. One attempt remaining.

Still holding your phone, Sherlock threw his hands into his hair. He paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.

“Her username is ‘efficiency’?” John asked.

“Not now,” More muttering.

“I think I kn—”

“NOT NOW, JOHN!”

John snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand. He stared at the screen. 

Username: Efficiency

Password:

One attempt remaining.

John exhaled sharply and started typing.

mattersoftheheart

Enter.

To John’s great relief, the phone pinged in praise and loaded a new screen. One that showed your exact location.

Sherlock stole the phone from John. He glanced from the screen to John and back to the screen.

“How did you know?”

“She, it’s. You wouldn’t understand.”

Sherlock blinked a few times. Then ran out of the flat.

John following right on his heels.


	6. How to Save a Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang with me on Tumblr! I'm [@melanoms](http://melanoms.tumblr.com)

Barreling through the city in a stolen taxi, Sherlock weaved through traffic to expedite their arrival. John oscillated to and fro in the passenger seat. His eyes only left your phone screen to periodically glance at the road ahead.

“Something’s not right. Something’s not right,” Sherlock murmured.

HONK.

 _SWERVE_.

“Of course something’s not right. The whole bloody thing isn’t right!” John shouted. 

Sherlock’s eyes remained locked on the road.

They called you CIA. They knew you were CIA. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to deduce that fact. But he never said anything, anything, anything that would lead them to that conclusion.

He replayed the conversation with Dalí over his in his mind for the forty-third time. But no matter how many times he thought it through, he came to the same conclusion. 

The only loyalty there was to betray was the dealer’s nagging suspicions that his intentions were impure. Or at least, not impure enough. It was more about him than about you. 

Even if they did suspect you weren’t who they said, how the hell did they find out you’re CIA? You wouldn’t give that up.

Something’s not right.

You put your phone in his bed. You cut your hand. You put your phone in his bed.

The password.

John knew…

“The password, John. What was it?”

“Er, matters of the heart.”

“How did you know?”

“She told me. When she asked for her notes back, she said that men like you believe that matters of the heart slow things down. But it’s what she calls efficiency.”

Matters of the heart. Efficiency. Men like him. Slow things down.

“She doesn’t trust me,” Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.

The taxi assaulted the sidewalk curb to whisk by an insufferably stagnant car.

“WATCH IT!” a pedestrian protested.

John gripped the door handle with white knuckles for balance. When the taxi was back on the street, he propped himself upright. They were closing in on the dot. They were closing in on you.

“She handed her life to you, Sherlock. She let you, er, choke her.”

“Out of necessity. But she voluntarily gave you the password. She gave you her things. Even though her phone was in my bed, she told you the location. She wasn’t talking to me when she said that. She doesn’t trust me.”

“Are your feelings hurt?”

 _“_ No, _John._ I haven’t given her a single reason to trust me.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked and his eyes bore forward. Like a bullet, he squeezed through a line of cars. The tires screeched across the asphalt.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

You gave everything to John. Rightfully so. But you didn’t trust Sherlock. You’re a spy. You breathe lies and betrayal. How could you trust anyone?

Yet, here he was, careening through the streets to find you. A trained CIA operative whose cover he blew, not once, but twice.

But twice. 

But twice.

A trained CIA operative whose cover he blew.

Twice.

“She gave you her phone, her location.”

“Yes?”

“She knows that we go everywhere, do everything together.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say _everything_ …”

“She said that we’re out of our depth.”

John raised an eyebrow. But Sherlock continued.

“You said yourself she’s a trained CIA operative with backup, resources, and knowledge we don’t have.”

His eyes went wide. The taxi squealed as it took a corner too tightly, as if protesting the driver’s unrelenting ability to push it to its limits.

“So….” John prompted him to continue.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Please, indulge me.”

“Her handler. Her handler, John. If she’s in a compromised enough state to call for help, then why, WHY, didn’t she call her handler or another asset. Why did she slice her hand open and put a GPS tracker inside herself just to call _us_? A man she couldn’t trust as far as she could throw and, well, you?”

“To be fair, I think she could throw you pretty far.”

“Why would she put her life in the hands of a duo she believes is as ill-equipped as the Hardy Boys?”

“Because, because we’re nearby. We’re available. We’re...” 

“Her only options. I didn’t tell them she was CIA.” Sherlock whipped his head to the passenger side and narrowed his eyes at John. “She did. There is no handler.”

John gulped. The dot flashed on your phone screen as if it was mocking him. He knew it was mocking him. They were close. But not close enough.

“Claiming to be CIA is a better alternative to admitting that she’s doing this alone. And that no one would even look for her body. No one else was coming for them.”

“Except us?”

“Except for us.”

To their saving grace, they reached an open stretch of road. Nary another vehicle in sight, Sherlock applied pressure to the accelerator, commanding the taxi to race forward at an unforgiving speed.

“Sherlock, the dot’s moving.”

John held up the screen. Sherlock snapped his gaze to confirm that yes, the dot that represented you was moving. It went in nearly microscopic circles, backward, to the side, then forward.

And fast.

Far too fast for you to be on foot.

You were in a vehicle. 

And it was headed straight toward them.

John’s eyes flickered from your phone and the road once again, ready for the precise instant that your vehicle appeared before his eyes.

“THERE!”

On the other side of the road, a black van raced toward them. But it started swerving side to side. The driver was losing control. The van swung into the opposing lane before spiraling out and crashing head on into a lamppost.

Once they were next to the accident, Sherlock slammed on the brakes. He and John leaped out of the taxi, abandoning the open doors in their wake.

They dashed to the van to see you, beaten and bloodied, in the driver’s seat. Your eyelids fluttered as you tried to retain your consciousness. John slammed his foot on the side of the van and yanked the stiff door open. 

He grabbed you under the arms and carefully started to extract you from the van. Sherlock readied himself to grab your knees and pry you from the seat. But the moment he touched you, you started writhing in John’s grasp and shrieked.

Sherlock’s pupils blew wide open as he saw unbridled terror across your face. The terror that appeared only when you looked at him, when he touched you.

You flung yourself out of the van and slammed into the pavement. You could barely move, even with the adrenaline coursing through your veins to numb your pain. 

Still, you clawed at the asphalt to prop yourself up. John touched your shoulder and you flinched. Sherlock saw his scarf wrapped around your thigh as a tourniquet. Fresh blood made the fabric of your jeans and his scarf equals as it stained them both without preference. As he examined you, Sherlock’s eyes locked on your arm.

“Please, we need to take you to a hospital,” John pleaded.

“No hospital, no police,” you murmured. You yanked a hold of the front of his shirt. “They know who I am. They’ll kill me. Please, I don’t want to die.”

“Okay, okay.” John blinked a few times and looked you over again. Finally, his gaze met your arm where Sherlock was staring. Written in permanent marker across your skin was a message.

_If found, return to John Watson B+ doctor. 221B Baker Street._

“We have to get her out of here,” John said.

Sherlock nodded and crouched down. You started to fade in and out of consciousness. He tentatively placed his hands around your ankles. When you didn’t recoil at his touch, he gave John another nod.

They placed you in the back seat of the taxi and sped to 221B Baker Street as per your instructions.

They carried you up the stairs and placed you on the floor in front of the coffee table. You were barely coherent and slurring your words.

“Doctor, Doctor John Watson. Take me to John Watson.”

“You’re here, I’m here. We’ve got you…” He looked at Sherlock. “Do you know her name?”

“Even if I did, it’s probably fake.”

John nodded. “Stay with her. I need to get supplies.”

John left to compile an assortment of his medical tools and Sherlock’s scientific equipment. Combined, the two had some semblance of what they needed to (hopefully) save you. Although, this would be the first time Sherlock’s needles and scalpels touched live tissue. 

While John dashed around the flat, you feebly bumped your hand on Sherlock’s arm as he leaned over you. In your delirious mind, you thought you smacked him.

“You betrayed me. You went back on everything we agreed on.”

His jaw ticked. But you continued to murmur your broken accusations.

“You left me. You left me to die. I thought we were in this together. I-I trusted you.”

Your arm fell from his and back to the floor. Your body shook as you started to cough up blood. The metallic liquid gurgled in the back of your throat. 

John rushed to crouch next to you, splaying out his findings.

“She’s bleeding internally. I’m going to have to open her up.”

He cut your shirt open to expose your bruised abdomen. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.

“She’s losing a lot of blood. I don’t know if she’ll make it.”

“I’m a match.”

“You’re a match? But how—”

“B positive. She wasn’t rating your medical skills.”

As John threw together some tubes and needles to transfuse Sherlock’s blood to you, there was a soft knock on the door.

“Is everything okay in there?”

“Yes, not now, Mrs. Hudson!” John called out. 

He picked up a newspaper and rolled it up. Looking at Sherlock, he spoke lowly. “You have to hold her down. At least until she passes out.”

Sherlock placed his forearm across your clavicle and his hand on your uninjured thigh. John stroked your hair and leaned in. 

“This is going to hurt. But you’re going to be okay. God will let you live. I promise.”

Another knock. 

“Are you sure? I heard a lot of things breaking.”

“NOT NOW, MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock yelled.

John threw the newspaper in your mouth. “Bite down.”

Your jaw tensed with the little strength you had left. He sliced into you with the scalpel. 

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the sound of your screams piercing through the air and John tearing you open on the sitting room floor.

“NOT NOW, MRS. HUDSON!” Sherlock and John shouted in unison. Their eyes never left you for a second.

Mrs. Hudson shrieked and slammed the door shut. They would certainly have to clean up the bloody mess they were making.

It didn’t take long for you to pass out from the pain. The moment your body went limp, Sherlock rolled up his sleeve. He punctured a needle right through the “o” in “Watson” on your arm. He then inserted a needle into his own to send his blood and regret into your veins, John working furiously to save your life.

For once, he and Sherlock worked in perfect rhythm to that righteous cause. 


	7. The Siren

Your consciousness returned to the waking world for a brief gasp of air. You tried to open your eyes. But your eyelids stood their post as soldiers on guard. Like they were either protecting you from the external world...

Or protecting it from you.

You remembered getting tied up and beaten. They assumed you were CIA. As usual, you let them think they had the upper hand. Men feel safer when they’re in control. Like everyone, they make mistakes when they’re certain. They tell you more.

Your captor contacted John and Sherlock. Even though you could have said something during the live feed, you had to know. Could you trust John to piece together your clues? Could Sherlock care enough to repent for his certainty? You already gave them enough to figure it out.

Regardless of their capabilities, you knew that you couldn’t rely on them. You learned long ago not to trust the fickle hearts of men. No one was coming to save you.

When your captor went to cut off the live stream, you seized your moment of opportunity.

“I’m not CIA,” you coughed.

“Say whatever you want. We’re smarter than your lies.”

“Cut the shit, jackass. I’m not CIA as much as you are smart.”

He punched you in the jaw. Eyes watering, you leaned forward and spat the blood from your mouth. He clenched his fist to go for another. But you bore your eyes into his.

“I know about the merger,” you growled.

His arm stiffened and squinted at you. You rolled your eyes and threw your head back, ignoring the throbbing pain in your face.

“Please tell me you’re not one of the stupid ones. All brawn, no brain, and hopelessly disposable? I’d like to hear you pretend to be clever.”

He slammed his fist into your diaphragm, forcing your lower ribs to contract. You sucked air through your lips. But your ability to breathe escaped you for a moment. 

“I am BORED of you punching me,” you grunted through gritted teeth. “Your fists have to hurt by now. Can we change things up? Go get a sword. Or a harpoon? You have a whole fucking tray of tools to use right there!”

Your eyes flickered to the untouched steel tray of torture instruments. 

“Or if you really want to surprise me, maybe try dazzling me with your intellect.”

Your tormentor growled. Your mind chuckled at his attempt to remain composed. He lowered his fist.

“What do you know about the merger?”

“That they never planned on sharing their trade secrets. They were going to betray you. Much like I’m sure you were planning to do the same once you got a hold of the extraction process.”

“And why should I believe anything you say?”

“I’m the Siren.”

He sneered and shook his head. “That’s rich. I’ll give you credit for a creative cover. But the Siren is dead.”

You closed your eyes and sucked in an aching breath.

“Of course the Americans told you that, dumbass. They never planned on giving you the extraction process because I am it.”

“You? But how? The extraction process isn’t a person.”

“I feel stupider just listening to you think. Go get me someone in charge.”

“You bitch!”

He latched his palm to your throat with an overcompensating squeeze. You bit the inside of your cheek to diffuse the pain. 

“Kinky. But I’m done with guys who go for the throat,” you grunted. “The Siren and the extraction process are the same thing.” 

You glowered at him and he removed his hand from your neck. “I’m the only reason the Americans gained their competitive advantage. The trade secret you're looking for is me.”

“Then why are you here? Why would you help us?”

“Is it nice? Not having to put everything together in that dull head of yours? I’m here because they betrayed me. They _thought_ they killed me because they couldn’t live with the idea of you Brits having the real deal. Idiots forgot that they couldn’t knock me off. For themselves or for you.”

You rammed your shoulders forward and angled your wrists outward. As if by command, your zip ties broke apart. Your former captor charged forward. But you punched him the jaw with your uncut hand. He stumbled backward into the metal shelving unit behind him.

“I know they send in the idiots for government lackeys. But since I’m clearly not one of them, get me someone with more than five brain cells to talk to.”

The buffoon pouted his bottom lip and rubbed his hand over his jaw. You put your hands on your hips and raised an eyebrow. 

“Well? Go! Next time I’m going for your teeth.”

He leaped to his feet and rushed out of the room The moment the door clicked shut, you grabbed your abdomen and buckled over in agony. You propped yourself up on the shelf and gasped a few breaths. Your ribs screamed with each contraction and expansion.

Breathing out a controlled exhale, you grabbed Sherlock’s scarf from the shelf and wrapped it around your neck. You examined the torture instruments and threw a pair of pliers and an icepick in your back pocket. After picking up a knife, you threw the shelf over and screamed.

A man dashed into the room. You yanked him into your arms and threw the knife to his throat.

“How do I get out of here?” you growled.

He kicked up his heel and slammed into your shin, sending you a few steps backward. Pain radiating everywhere, it was definitely everywhere. You bit your lip so hard it started to bleed. He spun around and you stabbed him in the stomach and twisted the knife.

He screeched in pain as you led his back to the wall, holding a firm grip on the knife.

“I can finish the job now. Or you can hope that they’ll find you soon enough to stop the bleeding. I won’t ask again. How do I get out of here?”

He muttered a few words on how to access the garage. You yanked the knife up through his ribs and followed his instructions to freedom.

But now...you were somewhere else. Somewhere quiet. Soft.

If you made it out of that room, then where were you? Your body still ached everywhere. But before you could muster the strength or courage to open your eyes, your mind fell victim to the blessing of sleep.

John cracked the door open to his room to see you still sleeping. He trotted back to the sitting room and scratched his head.

“Well, she still isn’t awake. But it’s only been twelve hours.”

Sherlock threw his coat over his shoulders and tucked his hands securely in his gloves. He walked to the door. But John grabbed his elbow to stop him.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

“The Barts Morgue.”

“For what? More body parts?”

“What else?”

“What else? _What else_? Don’t we have enough of a carved up human being here? You’re just going to continue business as usual?”

“What else should I be doing?”

John threw his hands in the air and shook his head. 

“Fine. Whatever. Go collect your eyeballs, toes, or heads for whatever experiment you’re doing. You’ve done nothing, _nothing_ to help her since. I don’t know why I’m surprised. But I thought you would at least let her sleep in your bed. You know she has an affinity for it.”

Sherlock swallowed and glared at John. 

“When you were running all about the flat she said that she trusted me and I betrayed her.”

“Well, we both did.”

“No, John. We’ve obviously established that she doesn’t trust me. She asked to be taken to you. Yet when her knight in shining armor appeared, she didn’t even recognize who you were. She screamed when I touched her. And not because it hurt physically. But because she is terrified of me. Terrified. Not because of who I am. But who I remind her of. And you want to subject her to sleeping in my bed?”

John’s stomach dropped. He rubbed his nose and looked downward. 

“Alright then. Will you be out—?”

But the door slammed shut before he could finish his sentence.

John continued to check on you every hour. After many rounds and two sleepless nights, he breathed a great sigh of relief to see the covers rusting one afternoon. 

He walked into his room and slowly approached the end of the bed.

Without lifting your head, you croaked, “John?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” He walked over so you could see him. His stomach twisted in knots at the sight of the bruising across your face and neck. His remorse painted across his own face, as if trying to make up for the pain inflicted upon you.

“Am I dead?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Thank God, no.”

“It feels like I’m dead.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

You blinked a few times and stared at the ceiling. Yes, you were at 221B Baker Street and you weren’t dead.

John returned with a syringe of water and some painkillers. He squirted the water into your mouth and helped you take the medication. You scrunched your face as you swallowed. 

Existing hurt.

“Do you remember what happened?” he asked.

You killed one of their men. You ran to the garage to hotwire a van. But they shot you in the leg right as you were about to close the door. 

You hauled ass out, trying to get anywhere in the world but that cursed land. Steering with your good knee, you wrapped Sherlock’s scarf around your leg and screeched in pain as you tightened the tourniquet. 

You started to lose control of the vehicle. You couldn’t see straight. But you grabbed a marker from the cup holder and yanked the cap off with your teeth. You spat it out and scribbled a message on your arm. It looked legible enough to you. But you were going to be out quickly.

You prayed that matters of the heart could save you. Just this once. Just this once.

Please, God. Let me live.

But you lost control of the vehicle and crashed. 

Everything felt fuzzy from that point. Someone dragged you out of the van. You were carried up some stairs. You smacked Clint in the arm. Hallucination, surely. A newspaper was in your mouth. Someone was screaming at a “Mrs. Hudson”.

Everything went black.

“No,” you whispered. “No, John. I can’t remember anything.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“John, they’re going to come after me. They’re going to come after you. You’re not safe here.”

You tried to throw yourself upright. But the slightest twitch sent alarm bells of pain coursing through every nerve ending in your body. You whispered a scream from the back of your throat and went limp in the bed.

“No, no. You’re not going anywhere. I had to open you up on the siting room floor. Cauterized your internal injuries. Traumatized Mrs. Hudson. And removed a bullet from your leg and the tracking device from your hand. You won’t be on your feet for quite some time.”

You groaned in protest. “But they’re coming for me. They’ll kill you both. It’s not like you’re hard to find.”

“No one is coming,” Sherlock echoed from the doorway.

You swallowed an aching lump in your throat.

“What? What did you do?” John asked.

“They found a body not far from the crash site. Picked apart by animals. Can hardly recognize the face. Hands in shreds. It’s utterly mangled.”

“That won’t be enough,” you murmured.

“But they can still see the scar.”

You held your breath. Your ribs praised the respite from your lungs expanding and contracting.

“Lower left quadrant of the abdomen. Burn mark. Healed. Approximately seven centimeters in diameter. But in the distinct shape of a curled _fish_ tail.”

He stepped next to John so he could see your face. His remained otherwise expressionless.

“Will _that_ be enough?” He raised his eyebrows.

You tilted your chin in a nearly imperceptible nod. Sherlock pursed his lips and walked out of the room. Your eyes flickered back to John.

“You’re safe. I promise.” He tentatively put his hand over yours, unsure of how you would respond to physical touch. But you accepted his offering and curled your fingers around his.

“Thank you.” You managed to smile.

“What should I—er, we—call you? We don’t know your name.”

Before you could process the repercussions, the name of your legendary cover flew through your lips.

“Call me Eve.” 

“Alright, Eve. I’ll get you something to eat. I’ll check on you every hour.”

You slowly turned your head to face the nightstand. Your leather jacket was folded next to the syringe and bottle of pain medication. Your notebook, gun, and phone sat on top of it. Then, propped up on the side of your pile of belongings was Sherlock’s scarf.

Completely clean of any blood, as if trying to help you erase the memory of that horrific day.

If only John saw Sherlock wash it for you.

He might have been kinder to his friend.


	8. The Game is On

Sherlock stood in front of Archer Ashworth with the barrel of a gun resting between his eyes. The wind rustled life into the long abandoned tarps and beams of the warehouse. The cement floors praised the life that graced its surface after years of silence.

Hands raised in surrender, Sherlock welcomed the cool air as it kissed his bare neck. His face remained otherwise expressionless. He could think of infinitely more enjoyable ways to use a firearm.

“The only reason you’re here is so I can personally shoot you myself,” Ashworth growled.

“I made a mistake.”

Ashworth narrowed his eyes. 

“Mistake,” he scoffed. “Sherlock Holmes doesn’t make mistakes.”

“I admit it is rare. But even I am prone to human error.”

Ashworth lowered his weapon. Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

“Even so, you cost me one of my men and a great deal of trouble. Your confession is worthless. Even if she is dead.”

He raised the gun once again. Sherlock drew in a breath. 

“I owe you,” he said.

Ashworth’s finger stiffened around the trigger.

“I owe you a favor. To repent for my transgressions against you and your fine establishment. A blank check from Sherlock Holmes is more valuable than a corpse. Surely you would agree?”

“And how do I know you still won’t cause trouble?”

“You don’t. But I give you my word that I _just can’t stomach_ it. Petty crime like serial killers and government conspiracies will have to satiate me for now.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Until you come to collect.”

“You better toughen up in the meantime, Holmes.”

“Oh, I will. _Just for you_.”

Sherlock was welcomed home by the usual sounds of you and John having a row from upstairs. Either you refused to take your pain medications. Or you tried to...

“Undress your bandages _by yourself?_ How many times do I have to tell you? I will be the one to do it,” John demanded.

“And how many times do I have to tell you that I’ve done this alone _many_ times?”

“Really? You’ve performed surgery on yourself in your own bloody sitting room? Just sliced yourself open and recovered just fine?”

Silence.

“That’s what I thought,” John quipped. “Now _I_ am your doctor. I will be the one to redress your wounds.”

Sherlock marched into John’s room to see him cleaning the blood from your incision. You wrinkled your nose and glared at the doctor. 

It didn’t hurt. Not at all. Eye twitch. Okay, it hurt. A lot.

“Ashworth won’t be a problem,” Sherlock said.

You whipped your head around and narrowed your eyes at him.

“What did you do now?”

“Made a deal. Promised him a favor.”

“If I recall correctly, promises don’t seem to be your strong suit, Mr. Holmes. You know that he’s going to collect.”

“I count on it.” 

You scowled. If you were in better condition, you would punch that smug expression right from his face. John tossed the blood stained bandages and cotton pads in the rubbish bin. He unfurled fresh gauze.

“I thought you said you were done with this?” you spat at the detective. “That you’d leave this to me?”

“And look how far that’s gotten you.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. I can handle myself.”

“Even I know that when a woman says she’s fine, she isn’t. Just look at you.”

He narrowed his eyes to examine your body. Given the hostile conditions of your surgery and limited medical resources, you were healing considerably well. Your incision still bled. But it was less and less by the day. 

Yet, while you were propped upright by your uncut hand, your arm trembled at the elbow. You grit your teeth as you glared at him. But not because you were angry. Although that did contribute. Rather, it took all of your strength to sit upright, albeit a lopsided upright, in John’s bed. 

In John’s bed. In John’s bed.

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. John applied the new bandages around your waist. You sucked in a breath when he applied pressure to hold the end of the new wrapping in place. 

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“S’okay,” you lied.

The doctor’s hands danced through the air as he enclosed your wounds with a healer’s touch. Sherlock’s eyes flickered from John’s hand on your ribcage and back to your face.

“Certainty is a death sentence,” Sherlock replied. “Your determination to do this alone will get you killed. We’re taking you on as a client.”

“I’m not some child looking for a lost rabbit. I will not be your _client_.” You spat the last word from your mouth like blood.

“Most people beg me to take their case.”

“How unfortunate for them,” you grumbled. “I don’t beg, Mr. Holmes. And I will _never_ beg for more time with you. No matter how much it might get you off.”

John cleared his throat. You and Sherlock glanced at him. 

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” he muttered.

Sherlock resumed staring you down. “Well, you might want to learn _._ The evidence thus far tells me you’re out of your depth.”

You tilted your chin downward and glared at him. With heaving breath, you growled.

“I do not have time to waste on a sociopath and his fucking power complex.”

He smirked. “Actually, you have all the time in the world. While you may not beg, your body does. Any moment now, that elbow of yours will give out. Hopefully, for John’s sake, you won’t tear a suture during your half-meter fall from grace.”

John wrinkled his brow and looked to see your elbow furiously shaking. He placed his hand on your upper back and helped recline you back to the mattress. You grunted in protest. But it wasn’t loud enough over the prayers for salvation from your aching body.

John snipped the stretch of gauze with a pair of scissors. You stared at the ceiling, imagining stamping Sherlock’s smug face on the back of your fist. You could practically see his smirk. Just not with your eyes.

“Know when to admit you’ve lost, _Agent_. It makes things more efficient and I don’t have to endure your foreplay.”

You opened your mouth to snap back. But a yelp escaped your lips as John taped your fresh wrappings in place.

“Sorry!” he squeaked.

You held your breath and grunted. Sherlock smirked and raised his eyebrows, sparing a luxurious moment to enjoy you like this. 

“The _Hardy Boys_ are here to save the day,” he sang the words with a symphony of arrogance. 

You huffed to the sound of his footsteps leaving the room. It hurt to breathe so hard, but it was worth it. John pursed his lips.

“There. Now don’t try anything or you’ll tear your sutures. I can’t have you undoing all my hard work.”

“Thank you,” you grumbled without making eye contact.

He sat at the edge of the bed next to your knee. You picked at a spectacularly ordinary blue thread on the sheet, avoiding eye contact with him. 

“Eve, I know this is hard for you. You’re used to going it alone. But I promise we’re here to help. Sherlock is the best there is. Please, for me, let us help you.”

You tilted your chin so you could look at him. He sighed.

“We got you this far. We can help you finish it.”

Throwing your head back into the pillow, you stared at the ceiling. Your eyes darted all over the blank canvas.

“Why am I up here, John?”

“We, we couldn’t just leave you.”

“No, why I am up here. In your room. You had to carry me up the stairs after you cut into me in your living room. It couldn’t have been easy.”

John pursed his lips and glanced downward. You tilted your head to look at him. Your heart swelled with curiosity.

“Sherlock refused to let you stay in his room. I refused to let you recover on the couch.”

“You should take your bed back.”

He put his hand over yours and smiled.

“No, you can trust me when I say that _I_ am fine. I’m a soldier. I’ve been through worse.”

“Like being held hostage and mistaken for Sherlock Holmes?”

“ _Especially_ the last part.”

You snickered. He laughed in reply, grateful to smile at you for a change.

John pointed to your leg. It was elevated on a few dutiful pillows. “Now, are you going to let me have a go at this one too?”

You nodded and he undressed the bandages around your thigh. He examined the area to confirm it was healing just fine. Better than your surgical incision. But that was to be expected. 

As John cleaned your gunshot wound, your gaze drifted to Sherlock’s scarf resting on the nightstand. Thus far, its presence towards you seemed indifferent, if anything. But now, it felt like it was mocking you. 

You were certain it was mocking you.

Downstairs, Sherlock stared into his microscope. But he groaned when his vision continued to fail him. The lines and shapes blurred together, lacking any necessary precision. He blinked rapidly. Yet, no matter how many times he returned his gaze to the eyepiece, it seemed his senses were determined to play tricks on him.

He abandoned the futile quest for knowledge in favor of throwing himself face-up on the couch. Taking up the entire length of the forgiving furniture, he dragged his hands across his face. He took a deep breath and placed his fingertips to his chin.

John trotted down the stairs. He stopped at the bottom of the stairwell and sighed when he saw Sherlock splayed out.

“Is your chair not good enough for you? You have to take my new bed too?”

Silence.

John crossed his arms.

“You know, you don’t have to rifle through the bins to check her bandages every day. It’s unsanitary, disgusting, and not to mention you could just, I don’t know, _ask_ me how she’s doing.”

Silence.

“Shouldn’t you be working the case right now anyway?”

Silence.

John rolled his eyes and started walking to the kitchen. The moment his back turned, Sherlock finally replied.

“I can’t.”

John spun around and tilted his head. He could feel a dull ache in his chest as he grit his teeth.

“You just told her—”

“ _Right now_ , John. I can’t work on the case _right now_.”

“And why’s that?” He blinked a few times.

“She doesn’t trust me.”

“Since when did you need your clients to trust you? In fact, I thought that you preferred to deal with them as little as possible.”

“I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Sherlock sat upright on the couch and focused his gaze on the rug beneath his feet. He ruffled his hands through his hair and drew in a sharp inhale. 

As if possessed by a force beyond his volition, his eyes drifted to the stain in the floorboards. No matter how hard John tried, he couldn’t get that bloody stain out. Sherlock would have to tell Mrs. Hudson to do it right. 

“She doesn’t trust me, John.” His jaw ticked as he looked back at his friend. “And I don’t know why I want her to.”


	9. Little Brother's Heart

At the grocer’s, John tapped his foot in front of the pin machine. He forgot to check his balance before he left the flat. And while Sherlock didn’t eat much, you certainly did. He prayed that the transaction would clear without any trouble.

As if God Himself heard him, the machine pinged in approval. John raised his eyebrows but didn’t question the divine intervention. He grabbed the bags and rushed back to the flat. 

Ever since John came home to the shouts of you screaming at Sherlock, he was afraid to leave the two of you alone. He went out for only a moment. But when he returned, your screaming abruptly stopped with a thud.

John dashed up the steps to see you lying face down on the floor. 

“What the bloody hell is going on here!” John shouted. He bent over to help you up. You swatted his hand and glanced around the room. But when John tilted his head to the side and gave you _that_ look, you accepted his help.

“I just asked her a few questions about the case and she went mad,” Sherlock reported.

“I told you. I’m not your client. There is no case.”

John flipped you over and hooked his elbows under your arms.

“You two need to grow up. Sherlock, grab her legs.”

“NO,” you and Sherlock protested in unison.

“She’s the one who overestimated her own strength and flung herself at me.”

But his eyes went wide as your shirt started to darken with blood. He grabbed your knees and you wrinkled your nose. But Sherlock and John returned you to your rightful place in bed.

John pulled up your shirt and shook his head.

“You tore some of your sutures. I’m going to have to redo them.”

He marched to his medical supplies.

“I’m sor—” Sherlock started.

“Don’t,” you growled.

John returned with the suture kit and started putting his gloves on.

“There will be no work on the case until she’s mobile.”

Sherlock glared at him.

“There is no case,” you grumbled.

“I mean it,” John demanded. “We aren’t doing anything until she’s healthy enough to punch you without hurting herself. Since self restraint is clearly lost on both of you.”

That was a week ago. 

John held his breath as he walked up the stairs to the flat. But he was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock at his microscope and hear not a sound from his room. John put away the groceries, moving a saran wrapped lung to fit a carton of spinach on the shelf.

“You know, I’m going to have to get a job soon,” John offered to the void.

Half the time, he wasn’t sure who he was talking to. But sometimes hearing his own voice was better than silence. It, admittedly, made him feel a bit like Sherlock Holmes.

“And if I do, you’ll have to take care of her while I’m gone.”

“Mrs. Hudson can do it.”

John slammed the refrigerator door shut. Sherlock remained otherwise focused on his experiment.

“You two will have to learn to get along eventually.”

Silence.

“Fine,” John huffed. “Let me check how much longer we’ve got.”

He strutted to his laptop and pulled up the webpage to check his bank records. But when the number appeared before the screen, he tilted his head to the side.

“Sherlock, has Mycroft….”

John pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. He closed the machine and looked at Sherlock who continued to manipulate the knobs on the microscope. John’s eyes went wide and he ran up to his room.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered from the bacteria to where John once stood. Head filled with curiosity, he followed closely behind.

You were finally able to sit upright in bed for short periods of time. You flipped through the paper John gave you that morning. He crossed his arms and stared at you. 

“Why do I have so much money?”

“What a fantastic problem to have,” you said without looking up.

“Eve, I mean it. Why do I have so much money and where did it come from?”

Sherlock walked behind John and raised an eyebrow.

“Do you really want the answer to that, John?”

John swallowed and scanned the room. You set the paper down to look at them.

“Neither of you has a job—”

“Consulting detective.”

“As I said, neither of you has a job. And as a person who is familiar with the lifestyle, I learned to manage in other ways. I can’t be cheap to feed. Especially with all the dreadful health food you keep giving me.”

“You need to maintain a good diet if you’ll heal probably,” John protested. “But that’s not the point. You can’t do...whatever it is that you’re doing. It has to stop.”

“Mrs. Hudson didn’t mind.”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“I paid your rent for the next three months.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance. You shrugged and picked up the paper again.

“Or you can get a job and leave me alone with Mr. Holmes all day. We know that can only end in, well, murder.”

“Why just John’s account?” Sherlock pouted.

“Some detective you are. He’s the one who operated on me, feeds me, and I can actually stand to be in the room with.”

“I gave you blood and a body.”

“And how did that go the last time you tried to exchange money for a human?”

Silence.

You set down the paper. John’s mouth was open and Sherlock scowled.

“Too soon?” you laughed and turned the page. “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

John swallowed and rubbed his hands on his trousers. “Alright then.”

“Does this mean I can eat something other than chicken breast and spinach?”

“Nice try.” 

You rolled your eyes as John and Sherlock left the room. You picked up your phone and started typing away.

The next morning, Sherlock Holmes woke up a richer man. Except his bank statements were flooded with refunds of varying amounts from different porn sites.

A week later, John returned from his usual trip to the grocer’s to the sound of you screaming from upstairs. Seeing that Sherlock was nowhere in sight, he set the bags down and rolled his eyes before heading to his room.

“OF COURSE HE’S THE FATHER!” you shouted.

“You’re wrong. He’s barely said anything the whole time. It’s clearly _him_. Just look at that jumper,” Sherlock replied.

John walked in to see you and Sherlock sitting next to each other in his bed. John’s computer was on your lap and between the two of you was a half eaten plate of chips. The laptop announced the father and Sherlock rolled his head back to the wall.

“Yes!” You smacked Sherlock’s chest with the back of your hand. “Judgment of Solomon. He wouldn’t split the baby. He’s the only one who secretly _wanted_ to be the father.”

“I doubt the DNA test cares about sentiment.”

“Yes, but it will spread her legs more often. Statistically increasing the likelihood that _he_ would be the father of her child.”

John stared at the two of you a bit dumbstruck. Sherlock picked up a chip but you snatched it from his hand and took a bite. 

John just shook his head and left. The crap telly addiction was infecting everyone at 221B Baker Street. You, of course, would pay for those chips with an additional serving of courgettes that evening.

When the episode ended you closed the browser, leaving the laptop still open.

“Thank you.” You gestured to the plate of chips. “It was nice to eat something other than John’s cooking and not want to kill you for forty five minutes.”

You placed your fingertips to Sherlock’s cheek and turned his head to face you. His eyes widened at the peculiar expression on your face. Your muscles were relaxed like he’d never seen them before and your pupils were dilated. The smile on your face was gentle, soft even.

Using the pads of your fingers for the most delicate leverage, you lowered his face to yours. You pressed your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss. Then you lowered them to graze his earlobe.

“Now get out before that changes,” you breathed.

Sherlock blinked a few times. For the first time since meeting you, he had no witty retort to your insult. Without another word, he left John’s room. You closed the laptop and finished off the plate of chips before John had a chance to steal them away.

That night, you threw open your eyes upon the feeling of chills through your body. Yanking your gun from under your pillow, you pointed it to the door. You could only make out a shadowed figure in the dark.

“Finally,” you growled.

“You knew?”

“Of course I knew. Found the bug under the bed when I threw myself off of it. Gave you a few opportunities to spy on me through John’s laptop.”

Mycroft turned on the light to reveal himself to you. You smirked and shook your head.

“You must be family. Only family would care about his…” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Little brother’s heart. Nothing else I did prompted a visit from you.”

“I assure you I am not one for sentiment.”

“That’s what they all say. But look who came running at a kiss on the cheek.”

“Only when it concerns a woman who’s called The Siren. A deadly creature who lures men and _especially_ women to their deaths.”

Your heart started pounding against your ribcage in protest.

“Do they know?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Do they know what you did in America?”

“I hardly think Sherlock Holmes would care about what I did in the line of duty.”

“And Doctor Watson?”

You swallowed. 

“Relax, Eve. I am not here to give away your secrets. Just to tell you that I am watching and I know.”

You finally lowered your firearm. “I’m not here to hurt him.”

“Perhaps. Even if that were the case, your presence is keeping him occupied enough. And right now, I need him distracted.”

“What are you hiding from him?”

“I won’t press your secrets if you won’t press mine.” He tapped the floor with his umbrella. “It’s good to know that the pornography industry is supporting my baby brother.”

“He’s terrible with money.”

“Dreadful. Always has been.”

You took a deep breath. 

“Very well, Mr. Holmes. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Mycroft. I believe my brother has already claimed that title when it comes to you.” 

He raised his eyebrow before turning off the light.

Leaving you in the darkness once again.

The next morning, you barely managed to choke down another bowl of John’s porridge. You slammed the empty bowl on the nightstand and scrunched your face.

“His food might kill me,” you murmured.

“What did my brother want?”

You raised your head to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.

“He seemed...worried about you.” You bit your lip. “He wanted me to keep you occupied with my irresistible charm.”

“He won’t stop trying to get me to take cases. I think he might even be making some of them up.”

“And why don’t you? Take his cases.”

“I already have a case.”

“There is no case.”

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket and walked out of the room. He texted Mycroft.

_Not using. SH_

But he rolled his eyes when his mobile started ringing.

"I know you contacted Dalí," Mycroft said.

"For a case."

"I'm watching you."

Sherlock drew in an exasperated inhale. "Please don't."

"I wish you were addicted to pornography. That would make things easier for all of us."

"I'm not an addict. I'm a user."

"Be careful."

Sherlock hung up and shoved his mobile in his pocket again. He would have to get started on your case soon. The talons of boredom were sinking deeper and deeper into his mind. But if he couldn’t directly work on your case either because of you or John, at the very least, he could make progress with you.

He had to learn your language of deception and lies if he could successfully take down this trafficking operation. 

The game, Agent, is on.


	10. A Different Kind of Experiment

John hopped down the last of the stairs to see Sherlock sitting in his chair. 

“Well,” the doctor reported. “She’s getting stronger. She can almost stand up on her own.”

To your great displeasure, John always had to roll you to the loo in an office chair. You refused to let him inside to spare you both any additional humiliation. But he had to help you get from the bed to the chair and back again at least a few times throughout the day. 

Being able to walk to the toilet yourself was your next big rehabilitation goal. And standing on your own was the first step of many to come.

“Of course she can,” Sherlock droned. His eyes gazed forward, trying not to lose focus.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock tucked away a few lingering files and blinked at John.

“Have you not been paying attention?”

“Are you serious right now? I’m the one up there round the clock helping her. You’re the one spending all day playing around in your bloody mind palace.”

“Her specialty is feigned weakness. Especially when it comes to men. Of course she can stand up. She can probably get to the loo by herself by now.”

John put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“Sherlock, you’re not the one helping her. She can barely stand up. Barely. She’s miserable and hates relying on me. I hardly see how that works to her advantage.”

Silence.

“Besides, I have to ration her pain medication now. I reached out the restricted amount a while ago.”

Silence.

John sighed and went back upstairs for another round of rehabilitation. It was wearing on both of you by now. Your patience was wearing thin.

Back in his mind palace, Sherlock dedicated an entirely new room for you. He needed a fresh slate to neatly file away all necessary information about you. The plaque on the front door changed between ‘Eve’, ‘Agent’, and ‘???’. 

When Sherlock walked inside, he furrowed his brow at the scene before him. He didn’t expect to see a beautiful study. The shelves were empty and ready to be filled with volumes about you. At the center of them was an ornate cherry wood desk with a typewriter. The warmth and richness of its hue contrasted with the chills that drifted through the cool air. 

To the right of the desk and next to the window was a chess table. The pieces were scattered across the board as if the players left mid-game. Sherlock bent over to examine the positions. He calculated that the player with the marbled grey pieces would win in seven moves over the player whose colors were blood red.

Standing straight up again, Sherlock slowly approached the desk at the center of the room. He traced his fingers over the keys of the typewriter and examined the brilliant carvings along the side. 

He opened one of the top drawers to see a firearm inside. He lifted it up to confirm that it was, indeed, your gun. But when he was about to set it back, he noted an inconspicuous notch at the bottom of the drawer. He hooked the tip of his finger in and lifted it to reveal a false bottom. 

Your notebook sat underneath. He set the gun on top of the desk and flipped through the pages. He still couldn’t understand your cipher. Without knowing your code, it was filled with the most mundane information about coffee, books, and American university sports.

He set your notebook and weapon back in their given places. Sherlock took a step back and surveyed the empty shelves. He smirked, grateful to have a new case to occupy his mind with.

Then he sat down in front of the typewriter and started recording.

You were clearly doing this alone. If you had anywhere else to go, there was no doubt that you’d be there instead of with John and especially with him.

You trusted John with your care. Some out of necessity. Some because it’s, well, John. You were willing to give your secrets to him. As seen with the password and your very life. This could be an easy access point into your own ‘matters of the heart.’ Whatever mysteries you had locked away in that vault.

As much as John cared for you, you did care for him in turn, as you displayed with your financial support and overall demeanor toward the doctor. You did everything in your power to not snap at him even though your rehabilitation was difficult. 

However, Sherlock deduced that you were healing faster than you let on. Certainly from habit and possibly because you enjoyed the relief of spending time with someone you could trust. 

He bound these pages in a volume labeled ‘John’ and placed it on the shelf, leaving many more to fill with new information. Sherlock smirked.

“Of course you trust, John. Who wouldn’t?”

He inserted another page in the typewriter and continued his work.

You’re highly skilled. While he and John executed the necessary steps to extract you from your hostage situation, you were the one who laid the groundwork for them to do so. Even though you weren’t a government agent, contrary to his continued use of your given nickname, you have some type of formal experience in the line of espionage. 

You were, admittedly, exceptionally clever. Which made you just as dangerous.

Your favorite strategy is to feign your weakness. You rely on others, especially men, taking your weak appearance at face value. Letting them think they have the upper hand gives you your competitive advantage. You relied on them to make mistakes.

“I certainly would not make the mistake of underestimating you,” he muttered.

Sherlock labeled that text ‘Skill’ and left it on the desk for easier access. 

He resumed typing, focusing on the more trivial tactics that he could use to his advantage. You abhorred John’s healthy food. But Sherlock’s offering of chips got you to let down your walls for just a moment. 

Or at least, you let him think that it worked. Even revealing your pseudo-vulnerable side gave him more information about you.

For example, even though you could consciously relax your face muscles and breathe on his neck to make the hair stand on end, your dilated pupils were involuntary. Given your flirtatious banter, a flavor curiously reserved for him, you were attracted to him. 

Even though you could hardly stand having him in the room for long, your physical attraction was a chemical fact that he could use to his advantage. Under the right circumstances, of course.

He scribbled on that cover “Sher” then abruptly crossed it out and wrote “Superficial” before placing it next to the volume about John.

Finally, there was the matter of what you said to him in your blood-loss delirium. You said that you trust him and that he betrayed you. Disregarding your physical attraction to him, something about Sherlock reminded you of someone from your past. Someone you trusted to take care of you. But who let you down and, in your own words, left you to die.

Someone whose touch makes you scream.

He pulled out a box for these pages and meticulously wrote “Matters of the Heart” on the outside. He scribbled a crude drawing of your scar on a scrap of paper and tossed it inside. The more information he could add to this particular box, the more he would know who you—not Agent, not Eve—really were.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stared at the empty box. 

“Who are you?” He furrowed his brow.

He was just about to put that box on the center shelf when he was yanked from his mind palace by the sounds of your screams flooding the flat. If he hadn’t dashed out of your dedicated room so quickly, he would have seen his scarf hanging on the coat rack by the door.

“GET OUT! JUST GET OUT!” you shrieked.

“Please. Let me help you up,” John pleaded.

Sherlock rushed into the doorway of John’s bedroom to a regretfully familiar sight. Except this time, it wasn’t him standing next to you face down on the floor. It was John.

You propped yourself up on your palms and hung your head.

“Eve, I know this is frustrating. I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. But you’re doing great. You’re getting stronger. Progress is progress.”

John crouched down and extended his hand to help. But you yanked your shoulder away from him so he couldn’t touch you. Sherlock furrowed his brow as your shoulders started shaking. 

You were crying. No, you were sobbing. 

Uncontrollably sobbing.

“LEAVE ME ALONE! DON’T TOUCH ME!”

“Okay, okay.” John patted the air with his hands. He stood up and walked past Sherlock to stop just outside the doorway. Sherlock tilted his head to the side as he watched you weep. You turning on John like this wasn’t part of his files for you. It troubled him. 

Did he get something wrong?

“Sherlock, let’s give her some space.” John nodded to the stairs.

Sherlock swallowed and followed John downstairs. In the sitting room, John flung himself in his chair. Pursing his lips, he rested his thumb under his chin and took a deep breath. Sherlock sat in his chair across from him.

“What did you say to her?” he asked. John shot daggers at the detective with his eyes.

“Why? Why do you want to know? So you can deduce that she’s faking? Or tell me how inadequate I am?” John shook his head and sucked in a breath. He resumed avoiding eye contact with the detective.

“Not everything is a game, Sherlock.”

“What did you say?”

Silence.

“What did you say, John?”

John swallowed. He readjusted to face forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He took a deep breath.

“We were just talking. I mentioned her terrible dietary habits. She said something about living on dorm food at university. Then the next thing I know, she loses her balance and starts screaming at me.”

He rubbed his hands together then leaned back.

“You know, this would be a lot easier if you would help. Even if human care is below the great Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. Your notes on university sports flashed across his mind. 

Perhaps you did share your secrets with John. But when he got too close, you threw up your walls and refused to let him come any closer. He filed the events of that day in his mind. But frowned at the realization that he couldn’t rely on you to rely on John.

Sherlock sprang from his chair and threw his coat over his shoulders. He dutifully placed a glove on each hand and swung the front door open.

“And where are you off to? Should I even ask?” John droned.

But he received his answer when the door slammed shut.

John buried his hands in his face. 

Missing his own bed quite a bit at that particular moment in time.

The next morning John set the kettle to boil. Face cradled in his hands and elbows on the countertop, he stared down the water as if his gaze alone could bring it to a screeching boil.

After an unbearable moment, it finally succumbed to his will. He mixed the water and milk in his mug and proceeded to mash the tea bag to hasten the arrival of his caffeinated salvation.

He sighed and opened the fridge to pull out ingredients for breakfast. He set everything on the counter and lazily sipped his tea. As he opened the carton of spinach, Sherlock dashed into the flat and bolted straight upstairs to John’s room.

“Don’t worry about her breakfast!” he shouted.

John threw two slices of bread in the toaster. He set the timer and took another sip of tea. When the warmth left his lips, he blinked a few times. Then his eyes went wide. He slammed the mug on the counter right as the toast popped up and ran up the stairs.

Sherlock stood next to your bed with a fork outstretched in his hand. You wrinkled your nose at the egg white omelet in front of you. Mouth open and still not nearly caffeinated enough for whatever was going on, John rubbed his eyes in a feeble attempt to better understand the scene before him.

“You cooked this?” You glared at Sherlock.

“God no. Mrs. Hudson.” He extended his arm to redirect your focus to the fork. “Here.”

You examined the omelet even closer. You raised the plate to sniff it and glanced at John.

“Er, I, I had nothing to do with it.”

“Wrong.” Sherlock looked at John. “You said it yesterday. You’ve been doing all the work of caring for our client—”

“Not a client.”

“—that I thought it was about time that I help out.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“What the catch?” you goaded.

He raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly overwhelmed by compassion. Why are you doing this?”

With his free hand, Sherlock withdrew a bottle of pain medication from his coat pocket and set it on the nightstand.

“Because John is clearly tired of caring for you but won't say it. I’m giving him the day off to recover from spending so much time with you. Then he can stop pestering me and I can actually work on the case.”

“No case.”

“Exactly. There is no case when you’re here making everyone miserable.”

You looked at John and your eyes went wide. “John, I’m so sorry.”

He rubbed the back of his head. “It’s okay. I understand.”

You glanced between Sherlock and the omelet. “You’re doing this so I’ll stop bothering you?”

“You may rest assured knowing that my intentions are entirely selfish.”

“Fine.” You snatched the fork from his hand and took a bite. After swallowing, you looked at both of them. “Happy now?”

Sherlock nodded. He bound to the other side of the bed and jumped up to recline next to you. You glared at him.

“I take the job very seriously.” He shrugged and pulled out a basket of chips from God knows where and started eating them.

“Where did you get those at 8 in the morning?” You leaned over to grab one. But he smacked your hand.

“Only the best food for our patient. Doctor’s orders.” He beamed at John and winked.

John ran his hands through his hair and glanced between you and Sherlock. Frankly, he was too exhausted to question what in God’s name was going on. He lazily waved a hand to leave you in Sherlock’s questionably good care before heading down to finish his half empty cup of tea.

“Enjoy your day off, John!” Sherlock bellowed through the flat.

You pouted at your omelette but proceeded to eat it. Sherlock snickered and chomped on another chip.

A perfect day for a different kind of experiment.


	11. It was Just a Game

Sherlock was disturbingly nice to you that day.

While John finished his own breakfast, Sherlock insisted that he get some time away from the flat. He even made him a reservation at Angelo’s for dinner.

“Have you gone mad?” John nearly choked on his tea.

“No.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Why is everyone so upset? I’m...trying.”

“Exactly. It’s quite suspicious.”

Sherlock scowled. “I can’t have you moping around or upsetting her injuries. It makes it that much longer until we can get started on the case.”

John pursed his lips. He set down his tea and shrugged.

“Alright then. But if there is anything that happens, you call me.”

“I wouldn’t want to deal with it anyway.” 

Sherlock smiled.

John grimaced, certain that smile would haunt him all day. But he was admittedly grateful to have some time away from the both of you. He wasn’t sure when this opportunity would come along again.

After John left, Sherlock diligently administered your pain medication precisely at its prescribed schedule. He scurried between John’s room and Mrs. Hudson’s flat to regularly feed you doctor approved food. 

Not once did he complain about helping you hobble to the toilet. You even asked to go three times in an hour just to see how far his patience would go.

At dinner, he came back with two heaping servings of fish and chips. 

“Finally!” you gasped.

“John’s reservation isn’t for another hour. We have time.” 

Sherlock handed you the basket, brushing his fingers against yours in the handoff of your greasy contraband. You picked up a chip to take a bite. But he set his hand on yours to lower your fried salvation from your mouth.

“Medication first,” he insisted.

You rolled your eyes. But dutifully popped the pills in your mouth. After a swig of water, you gleefully chomped down on a chip. 

Sherlock jumped onto the other side of John’s bed to sit right next you. His shoulder brushed against yours as he ate his own dinner.

“How’s your pain?” He wiped his hands on a napkin.

You swallowed a bite and moaned in relief. God bless John. But his cooking could never compare to anything deep fried.

“It’s good. Honestly, it’s the best it’s been in a long time. I feel good. Really good today.”

You beamed at Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t just for you.”

“Yes, poor John. He’s running ragged as a single mom of two. Really deserves a self care day.”

Sherlock chuckled. You rested your head on his shoulder and glanced at him through your eyelashes. He smirked and redirected his focus to the last of his chips.

“You know, if you were this nice to me all the time, I might actually like you,” you hummed.

“I could say the same to you.”

You stroked his nose with your finger and giggled. He gathered your empty baskets and napkins and discarded them in the rubbish bin, taking note to empty it before John got home. 

Sherlock hopped back in bed next to you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder and drew you close to him. You nuzzled your cheek into his chest. His jaw ticked at the feeling.

“It’s too bad you’re such an asshole. You’re so pretty,” you teased.

“You’re disgusting.” He wrinkled his nose at you.

“See? Asshole.”

“When did you last bath?”

“You probably don’t want to know.”

“Let me draw one for you?”

“Nice try. You are not seeing me naked. You’ve already seen my insides. That’s as naked as I ever want to get with you. No matter how stunning your cheekbones are.”

Sherlock sighed. You could feel his chest rise and fall with each beautiful breath. 

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he murmured.

He removed his arm from around you and readjusted to look you in the eyes.

“I know Mrs. Hudson has blessed John by getting fresh clothes for you. But I thought you might want something more…” He bit his bottom lip and glanced around before returning his gaze to you. “Ladylike.”

You sucked in a breath and leaned in closer to him. Tilting your head upward, you pressed your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss. But this time, there were no cameras for Mycroft to peek through. 

“I would love that.”

Sherlock grinned and bounced from the bed to the bathroom. He drew the water and filled the tub with oils. By now, your incision was almost completely healed and he researched what would soothe your muscles. He set out some clothes for you to change into afterward.

When the bath was ready for you, he dashed to your side of the bed. Sherlock placed one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. You wrapped your arms around his chest and neck, as if to make up for the scarf he missed the past few months.

Sherlock carried you into the bathroom and set you on the toilet. A blessing to you both, it was right next to the tub. He let out a deep exhale and put his hands on his hips.

“Can you manage from here?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You’ll let me know if you need help?”

“You’re not seeing me naked.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. He closed the door to the bathroom and hopped back to his side of the bed. Then snickered.

Just perfect.

In the water, you moaned a sigh of relief as the warmth relaxed your muscles. You took your time to wash your body and thoroughly clean your hair. It was too long since you felt so pure.

Eventually, you drained the water from the tub. Gripping the edge, you swung your leg over to sit on the bathmat on the other side. Sherlock thoughtfully put everything you needed within arm’s reach. 

After drying yourself with a towel, you raised an eyebrow at his selection in clothing for you. Apparently his bank statements inspired his choice in black, lace undergarments. Underneath them was a deep scarlet silk dressing gown. 

Delighted to be out of Mrs. Hudson’s choice of clothing for you, you wriggled into Sherlock’s selections. You traced the surgical scar down the length of your abdomen. Your eyes flickered to the other and you bit your lip. But you quickly wrapped the satin sash around your waist and cleared your throat.

“Mr. Holmes, can you help me back to bed?” you sang.

Sherlock’s jaw ticked at the sound of your voice. He swung his legs over the bed and slowly opened the door to the bathroom. He bent down to scoop you up from the floor, carried you to the bed, and gingerly placed you back in your spot.

Before you unfurled your hands from the back of his neck, you drew his face close to yours. Brushing your lips against his earlobe, you breathed, “Such a gentleman.”

“Have they not always been?”

“No, not like you.”

He smirked. You could feel his satisfaction against your cheek. Taking that as your cue, you grabbed his wrist to lead him on top of you. He carefully slid his knees between yours so he wouldn’t disturb any of your injuries. 

Sherlock brushed your damp hair from your face and examined your expression. Dilated pupils. Soft muscles. A trust that he hadn’t seen before. 

Yes, this is what he was looking for.

You bit your lip at the sight of his gaze lingering on you. In protest, you yanked on the front of his shirt to bring his lips to yours in a deep kiss. Your lips danced across his and created a rhythm of pleasure that Sherlock Holmes never felt before. 

Sherlock’s heart started pounding erratically against the inner walls of his chest. You threw your fingers into his hair and massaged his scalp. Then you slid your tongue into his mouth and delicately traced the territory of his inner world with careful diligence. 

Sherlock freed a low moan from the back of his throat. This was far more pleasurable than arguing with you. He should have done this a long time ago. 

Was he taking it too far?

You raked your fingers up his back and deepened your kiss with each skilled stroke of your tongue. As if without any conscious decision, he pressed his hips into yours with a growl. You propped your good leg on his hip to accept more contact from his body.

“I’ve missed this,” you moaned.

“Has it been that long?”

Sherlock trailed kisses from your lips and to your jaw line. You tugged on his hair to guide his focus to the tender flesh of your neck. 

You bit your lip and arched your back to narrow the already microscopic space between your bodies. He slid his hand under your back to support your decision. Then he used the other to trace his fingers along your side, with only a silken barrier between his skin on yours.

“Yes, don’t you remember, my love?”

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. He nipped and kissed the soft spot behind your ear, grateful for the euphoric excuse to bury his face in the crook of your neck. 

He furrowed his brow and tried to maintain focus. But his heaving breath protested against his brain’s requests. This is exactly why he didn’t let physical attraction get the best of him. Especially when he was working a case. But this appeared to be the only window you left open.

“Remind me,” he whispered onto your neck.

You traced your fingertips along his jawline and led his lips back to yours. He cursed the feeling of your skin on his. His primal instincts would hijack his mind at any moment. You bucked your hips into him and gasped at the pressure.

At the very least, Sherlock had to soak in the information you would share next. It was why he was here after all. Right? 

The whole. 

_Fucking_. 

Reason.

He grabbed your hair to pull your head back and expose your neck even more to him. With a grunt, he bit down and sucked. He was now determined to adorn your neck with a set of different bruises. You latched your fingers in his hair and dug your nails into his scalp. 

Staring at the ceiling, your eyes shot daggers in the canvas above you.

Ready to go for the kill shot.

“We usually don’t do this with your little brother home,” you growled.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he bolted upright, fingers clawing the sheets on each side of your face. Nostrils flaring, his eyes bore into yours as you sneered at him. He blinked rapidly to process the words that you just said in his weakened mental state. His eyes darted all around and landed on…

...the pills scattered across on the floor.

A constellation of medicated mockery.

He leaped from on top of you back to the floor. You glowered at him and propped yourself up on your forearm. The dressing gown fell from your shoulder to reveal even more of Sherlock’s choices of the evening.

“Did you really think that I wouldn’t know you were double dosing me? I told you we can’t trust anything that’s too good to be true.”

Sherlock threw his hands in his hair and started pacing the room.

“My-Mycroft” he breathed.

“Oh God, no. I only met him the one time and nearly shot him. I just had to see the look on your face.”

He swallowed and stared at you. Terror painted across his beautiful fucking face.

“If you want to fuck information out of me Mr. Holmes, you’ll have to try much harder than that.” Your eyes flickered to the bulge in his trousers. You raised your eyebrows. “Or you already got that started.”

Sherlock’s breath heaved as the room started spinning. He threw his fingers to his temples to recalibrate his senses. But to no avail. Instead of suffering through any more time with you, he snatched his scarf from the nightstand and stomped out.

John came home just in time to hear the sound of the slamming door pierce through the tension in the flat. He furrowed his brow at the sight of Sherlock marching to his room and once again slamming his own door shut.

In his mind palace, Sherlock broke down the door to your dedicated room. The chess pieces rearranged themselves. Now, the blood red queen checkmated the grey marble king. 

He topped the board over to send the pieces flying across the room. On the floor, they mingled without discrimination. 

All equals when finally tilted on their sides. 

Sherlock threw the books and papers from the shelves and scattered them across the floorboards. Clenching his fists, he roared throughout the frigid air of the study. His breath barreled through in a visible cloud of anguish.

He snatched your volume of Skills from the desk and lit it on fire, tossing it in the rubbish bin. 

Sherlock yanked your box of Matters of the Heart from its place on the desk. He deeply regretted abandoning it in favor of the sounds of your screams the day before. 

But when he peered inside, his heart skipped a beat to see that his notes and drawing were no longer there. Instead, his hand shook as he picked up a photo of his lips on yours. The visual instantly ignited the radiating, aching warmth from his heart that he felt when he kissed you.

How much, if any of it, was real?

He couldn’t deny the physical chemistry between you. But you left that window open. You left that window open...just for him. Like a spider weaving her web.

Or a siren singing her call.

But then again, he played along. He played right into your devilish trap. He bit the apple of your forbidden fruit. All in the name of the game.

For it was just that.

A game.

It was just a game. It was just a game. It was just.

A game.

Sherlock glared at the chess pieces. But the grey marble pieces were now covered in blood. The scarlet player finally showed her true colors. He dared to meddle not just with love. But with a woman fluent in matters of the heart as much as she was betrayal.

What made you this way? For you were no high functioning sociopath. But a creature whittled into the twisted trickster that you are.

He threw open the drawer and slammed your gun on the desk. The photo of you drifted back to the floor. 

He flicked open the false bottom of the drawer and scanned the pages of your notes. Coffee. Books. University sports. Friends. Nothing identifiable or even interesting.

But for the first time, Sherlock wasn’t trying to crack the code. And in doing so, he realized…

There wasn’t one.

These were stories from your time in America. The last shred of your mundane humanity.

Your affinity for dorm food. This particular organization you wanted to destroy. Their favorite prey. Your scar, no your brand. The way you screamed when he touched you. How you knew exactly how much he should choke you. Your skill in selling yourself to survive.

_We can’t trust anything that’s too good to be true._

No, it was not a game.

At least not one you enjoyed playing.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and stared at the photo on the floor. He picked it up and sank to the judgmental floorboards with his back propped up against the desk. 

Having finally solved the great mystery of you. 

You said all along that men like him slow things down. And he just wrote the thesis on how you were right. 

If only he listened to you when you said to leave things to you.

He wouldn’t be in this bloody mess in the first place.

John creaked the door to his room open to see you sobbing in bed. He furrowed his brow at Mrs. Hudson’s sudden change in choice of clothing for you. He walked next to you and crouched down so he was level with your face and the tear-stained sheets.

“Eve, what happened?”

“I need to leave,” you breathed without making eye contact.

“What? Why? Just tell me what happened.”

John glanced down at the floor to see your pain killers scattered across the floor. He grimaced at the fish and chips trays in the rubbish bin. Then he sucked in a breath at what you were wearing.

He bolted upright to march out of the room. But you yanked the front of his shirt to bring him back to your eye level.

“Everything is a game to him.”

John gulped. His eyes flickered downward and back to yours.

“I know. He needs it to be. Otherwise he gets in trouble.”

“John, I’m equally at fault here. I played along.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know men like him. But the reason I’m good at the game isn’t because I like it. It’s because I have to be.”

He sighed a breath he felt would never end.

“Eve…”

“Please don’t call me that. That name is written in blood.”

“Don’t leave. We’ll sort this out. Just don’t leave.”

“John, I’m so sorry. For everything. You are the kindest soul I know. And like all kind souls, I’ve let you down. I’ve betrayed you like the monster they made me. But I played along. I played the game.”

John took a deep breath and stroked your damp hair. Then he walked to the other side of the bed and laid on top of the covers next to you. 

After many months of sleeping on the couch, John hating being back in his bed. He wrapped his arms around you as you sobbed. 

Both of you praying that you wouldn't have any dreams in the terror of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [@melanoms on Tumblr](http://melanoms.tumblr.com) if you want to screech with me.


	12. His Final Play

In the haunting of the night, God was determined to make you repent for your sins against humanity. Having used all your good fortune in the recent months—and probably for a lifetime—She plagued your sleep with dreams from the deep.

As if giving you the cursed opportunity to rewrite the evening, your body was intertwined with Sherlock’s as he draped himself on top of you. In this mirage dream world, however, you didn’t have to plague John’s bed with your frivolous desires. Instead, your head rested on the detective’s pillows as a small whisper of your heart wished it had always been.

A minuscule, microscopic, practically, definitely nonexistent whisper.

For it had no more room to grow since your heart belonged to another.

Your lips danced with his in a waltz of unbridled longing. You tangled the fingers of one hand in his curls and caressed his neck with the other. Sherlock cradled your face in one hand with diligent care while allowing the other to sinfully rest on your hip.

You gasped for air in between fervent kisses. But he, a determined man, always returned to your lips with even more devotion from breath to breath. As if his touch alone could breathe life into your calcified existence. He diligently chipped away the hardness of your history with the softness of his touch.

Sherlock untangled his lips and tongue from yours to relish a moment to drink in your face. With heavy breathing, you stared back into his hungry eyes as he examined you.

Dilated pupils. Soft muscles. A trust that he hadn’t seen before.

Yes, this is what he was looking for.

Sherlock reached under his bed and withdrew his scarf. He tenderly draped it around the back of your neck and traced your cheekbone with the back of his hand. Your breath hitched as the alarm bells of your inner world started clawing at the walls of your mind. But you remained frozen in place against their protests.

He twisted the cursed fabric to apply more and more pressure to your throat. You gasped for breath, for more life giving breath. But he stole it with another twist of fate.

“I’m sorry,” he snickered.

You clawed the air in a silent plea for mercy. But he was enjoying himself far too much to relieve you of your suffering. Your eyes watered and clouded your vision, as if the tears stained your sight to a watercolor version of your dream-reality.

He ripped the scarf from your throat and you coughed for air. But your lungs would not receive kindness from this man. He latched his palm to your throat, preferring to feel the vulnerable flesh of your neck against his own.

He always preferred his hands.

For this man was no longer Sherlock Holmes. This was the one that your heart eternally belonged to. The man who carved it from your chest, branded his mark into the beating tissue, and locked it away to claim you as his own.

He leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“Don’t struggle, baby girl. How else will you know when to go limp? This is all for your training. I’m doing this for you.”

Your eyes begged for mercy.

“Relax,” he cooed. “It’s just a game. You love playing along.”

He tightened his grip with a sneer. Your lungs throbbed for oxygen and your heart howled for safety. But there was no security for you in a world where women were products and not people. It didn’t matter how skillfully you aligned yourself with the higher leadership or how well  _ you _ could sell yourself.

He would always own you.

How you longed to believe in childish dreams like heroes and matters of the heart. How you longed to be able to scream for a way out. But you were in too deep. And no one was coming to save you.

Instead, you could only gasp and pray for air.

Hoping you’d get to breathe again.

Your eyes erupted open to your cursed reality. Breath heaving and sweat embracing your body, you glanced at John who was splayed out next to you. He was sound asleep and you were determined to keep it that way.

Staring at the ceiling, your eyes danced circles through the darkness. Against your conscious choice, they choose to linger on the same spot where you shot daggers before you broke Sherlock’s spell. 

However, your weapons of rage now fell from the cracked canvas to pierce your aching heart.

Not that it belonged to you anyway.

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, praying that God might show you the mercy you otherwise never received.

The next morning, John returned to the waking world thanks to an indelicate slap across his face. He bolted upright and turned his head. Only to see you splayed out across the mattress and wrinkling your nose with a shameless snore. 

While John knew quite a bit of your body—both inside and out—he quickly shielded his eyes from the sight of you in black lingerie. The sash of your scarlet dressing gown abandoned its duty of protecting your decency at some point in the evening.

Even if you were awake, you couldn’t remember exactly when it happened.

As if John’s tormented soul needed yet another striking vision to start the morning, his mind flashed to the image of Sherlock purchasing such items for you in the real world. He scrunched his face and shuddered. Then tossed a blanket over you in a futile attempt to erase both spectacles from his mind. 

John tossed himself from the bed and traipsed downstairs. He threw on the kettle and opened the fridge. 

With a sigh, he removed his leftovers from their mundane location next to a plastic bag of human tongues. He tossed the box onto the table and proceeded to slurp his leftover spaghetti noodles while he waited for the water to boil.

It was far too early and he was not nearly caffeinated enough to bother with a bloody fork.

After an audacious number of handpicked noodles, the kettle started to screech for his attention. John rinsed his hands at the sink and roughly slapped them across a hand towel. He reached for the kettle to relieve it of its morning ritual. 

But before he could curl his fingers around the handle, Sherlock yanked it from his grasp.

“Wha—” John squinted. “Just how long have you been there?”

“The whole time.”

John drew in a sharp inhale. His right eye twitched with righteous indignation. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in reply.

“Don’t act offended. It’s not my fault you didn’t notice.”

John sighed and reached for the kettle. But Sherlock held it up even higher.

“Sherlock, you utter cock. I’m in no mood to play games with you.” He narrowed his eyes. “And neither is she.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“What the hell happened last night?”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. He stared at John as he held his breath. But after a moment, he huffed an exhale and lowered the kettle a few mocking centimeters, leaving John’s caffeinated deliverance still woefully out of his grasp.

“I need to talk to her.”

“No, not a chance.”

“She’s not who you think she is.”

“No shit. She’s a spy.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and blinked a few times at his hopelessly ignorant friend. He swallowed. 

But instead of placing it in John’s devastatingly fed-up hands, he slammed it on the counter and grabbed a hold of the man himself.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing! Let me—”

Sherlock put his hand over John’s mouth and dragged him into the sitting room.

“Oh my god! Ashworth no!” he bellowed throughout the flat. “Not John! I told you he’s not for sale!”

He kicked the coffee table and took each step with extra vigor. John nipped the inside of Sherlock’s hand and squirmed. His attempt for freedom only ignited a scowl across the detective’s determined face.

“Please! Don’t shoot! I’m sure we can come to a proper business arrangement!” Sherlock continued.

John writhed in Sherlock’s grasp. He was just about to stamp his heel on the bastard's foot. But he froze at the sound of thumping from upstairs. 

Sure enough, you came racing down with your gun in hand and ready to shoot any motherfucker who dared to touch John Watson. Fortunately for you, that man happened to be Sherlock Holmes.

“What the hell are you doing?” you seethed.

“Proving a point.” He threw John across the room to free him. 

The doctor bore his eyes into the floor to avoid the delightful vision of you, clad in lace armor and an open silk dressing gown, pointing a gun at Sherlock. The last part, admittedly, is what he enjoyed the most.

“You manipulative dumbfuck,” you hissed. Your eyes flickered to John’s blushing face. To spare him of any more suffering, you tossed your gun on the tilted coffee table and scrambled to tie the sash of your dressing gown.

John furrowed his brow and slowly raised his gaze back to you.

“You, you,” he breathed. “You can walk?”

You glowered at Sherlock. He grit his teeth and stared back. After breathing a sharp exhale, you looked at John.

“Yes, for the past week now.”

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

You glanced at the floorboards, gulping at the bloodstain that now shamelessly mocked you. 

“Him,” you growled, looking at Sherlock. “Are you happy now? Proved your point? Showed John what a twisted, conniving bitch I really am? Why? Because you couldn’t fuck me into submission?”

John furrowed his brow and glanced between the two of you, muttering indistinguishable whispers of pained confusion as his head bounced side to side.

“No, because I have to tell you something.”

“This is exactly why I can’t trust you! Everything is a fucking game. Instead of coming up to talk to me, you pull this type of shit!”

You sliced through the air with your hands in frustration. Shaking your head, you swallowed and bore your eyes into his.

“No, I wanted to talk to  _ you, _ ” he pleaded.

“Because you couldn’t be bothered to walk up a flight of stairs?”

“Because your helpless self isn’t you.”

Balling your hands in fists, you glared at the ceiling. 

“I’m done. I’m done playing your games you sick fuck.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say. I...I am too.”

John knit his brows together. But you simply crossed your arms and laughed. 

“No, no you’re not. I know men like you. You’re never done. It’s never enough. You will suck the very life from me with your last dying breath just to keep playing.”

Sherlock took a step forward. Your muscles tensed as he closed the space between your bodies. Breath caught in your throat, you bit your lip and tilted your head to the side as you retained begrudging eye contact with him.

He cautiously extended his hand to your face. When his fingers were a breath away from your cheek, you reeled your arm back and punched him square in the nose. 

He went stumbling backward and threw his hand to his face. John’s head whipped between you and Sherlock, unsure if he should intervene, cheer, or both. 

When Sherlock rose upright, he removed his hand from his face to reveal a fresh trail of blood from his nose. It carelessly abandoned his face to decorate his shirt with your rage. You scowled at him and sucked in a breath.

“Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever touch me again,” you spat.

Breath heaving, he rotated his jaw and rolled his neck. He blinked a few times to regain as much of his physical composure as he could. 

A scientific man, Sherlock didn’t know why he believed you’d react any differently. But apparently hope nibbled away as his full logical capabilities.

When he was ninety-six percent recovered, he shook out his shoulders and met your gaze again. You glowered at him and clenched your jaw. He took one step closer but you raised your fist in the air.

“One more step and I will go for your teeth.”

He stopped and raised his hands.

“I’m sorry.”

You furrowed your brow and clenched your fingers even tighter into your fist. Sherlock took a deep breath as blood continued to drip from his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, emphasizing each worth with the utmost care.

You slowly lowered your arm and held your breath. Staring into his eyes, you tried to extract as much information from them as you could. But Sherlock, determined to keep this one God forsaken promise to you, didn’t make you work for it. 

After a few aching moments in time, your eyes went wide.

“How much do you know?” you whispered.

“Probably not all of it. But enough.”

“Mycroft?”

“No, you told me all along. I just, I didn’t listen.”

Your chest rose and fell with each tormented breath, your soul gasping for air. Sherlock slowly parted his lips for his final peace offering.

“Forgive me.”

You shot daggers into his eyes with your own. But as they bore themselves deeper and deeper into his beautiful, brilliant eyes, they revealed to you a softness that you’d never seen from the consulting detective.

A softness from any man  _ like him _ .

Was it possible that you too made a miscalculation?

Against your conscious will, the muscles of your jaw relaxed just enough for your own softness to creep through the hardened cracks of your face. You gulped and furrowed your brow as your eyes flooded with a sea of ancient regret and sorrows.

“I…” Your eyes flickered to the floor and back to him. “I don’t know if I can.”

The tension weighed on the hearts of every lost soul in 221B. For a moment, all of time stopped as Sherlock held your gaze with an indestructible conviction. 

Yet, the entirety of your physical senses failed you. You could only feel the present thumping of your aching heart as you refused to break the bond between your eyes.

How much, if any of it, was real?

...and was it too good to be true?


	13. Rubbish Baby Holmes

The next two days, 221B Baker Street was haunted by the sound of silence. 

You insisted on sleeping on the couch. To your relief, John didn’t fight you on that. But the two of you did, however, continue to share his room otherwise. You only graced the first floor of the flat to sneak in a few hours of dreaded slumber.

On the second evening of quiet, you left the bathroom and roughly dried your hair with a towel. To John’s saving grace, you were always diligently clothed in front of him. In his pyjamas, he exited his wardrobe and frowned at you.

“I don’t buy it,” he said.

“Hm?”

“I don’t think you’re as strong as you're making it out to be.”

Your hands froze on top of your head. 

“Physically, at least,” he added. You resumed tousling your hair.

“John, I’m fine. I’m barely moving around. This is easier on you too. Honestly, I’m just relieved that you’re still talking to me after I lied.”

“You could have told me.”

“I…”

“I know you don’t trust him. But you could have told me.”

You untangled the towel from your hair and glanced down.

“I know,” you murmured. You raised your gaze to look at him, eyes swimming with unspeakable apologies and broken promises. “Trust is not in my nature.”

John sighed. “You two deserve each other you know.”

“Don’t be crass.” You groaned and rolled your eyes. 

“I mean it. Sherlock Holmes is the most insufferable, rude, childish, needy man I’ve ever met.” 

Mouth slightly open, you knit your brows in offense.

“He’s also the greatest,” John finished.

You bit your lip and shifted your weight to the other hip. Avoiding eye contact with him, you focused your gaze on a specific notch in the floor.

“Don’t shut him out. Not yet. He’s not who you’re making him out to be.”

John waited for your reply with bated breath.

“Thanks for letting me stay in your room. Sheets are clean for you. And no, I didn’t make Mrs. Hudson do it for me.”

You tossed the towel in the laundry basket and grabbed your gun from the nightstand.

“You know that you don’t need that for him,” John muttered.

“It’s not just for him.”

You forced a smile at John’s sorrowful face. 

“Night, John.”

On the third day of silence, Sherlock ended his self administered exile. He crept out of his bedroom upon hearing the sound of you and John having a row in the sitting room.

“I’ll be FINE, John.”

“Like hell I’m letting you out of my sight! You’re supposed to be _dead._ What if someone sees you? What if you’re overestimating your strength?”

“Unless the zombie apocalypse rained down in the last few months, yes, _someone_ will see me. That’s why I’m wearing this!”

You gestured to your tracksuit bottoms and one of John’s jumpers. Your hair was pulled back in a low bun at the base of your baseball cap. You tilted your sunglasses down to raise an eyebrow at him. But he threw his hands in the air in a huff.

“I’m not letting you go out like that. And that’s mine!”

“John, I look like garbage. No one will think twice about it.” You winced. “I mean, I love this sweater. It’s great.”

John put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes.

“Fine, but I’m going with you.”

“Like hell you are.”

“I am your _doctor._ ”

You swung your head back and groaned. After placing your sunglasses on the brim of your hat, you put your hands on his shoulders and pursed your lips.

“John, this is not the first time I’ve wandered the streets as a dead woman. I’ve been trapped here for months. Most of that in the confines of your bed. Please, for the love of all that is holy, let me leave. Let me fend for myself.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not asking your permission. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

You strut out of the flat, leaving John shaking his head and Sherlock cocking a curious eyebrow. 

You darted into Speedy’s for a cup of coffee. Wrapping your hands around your caffeinated salvation, you paid in cash and bounced out as quickly as you came in.

You walked in an indistinguishable pattern throughout the city blocks. But after passing a newspaper stand for the third time, you stopped by to flip through the latest issue of Private Eye.

“I’m a dead spy. Not a blind one,” you murmured.

Chills ran down your spine as Sherlock’s breath grazed your neck. You tossed the magazine back on the rack and spun around. 

But you reeled your head back at the sight of Sherlock—unshaven and clad in a windbreaker and tracksuit bottoms. His nose was still a bit swollen. But the bruising otherwise dissipated. 

Frankly, he put your slob look to shame.

Nearly spraying your sip of coffee on him, you threw your hand over your mouth and gulped.

“What the fuck happened to you?” you coughed.

“I’m committing to the cover.”

“Is this fake? Does it wipe off?” 

You reached up to smudge away his stubble. But you instantly retracted your hand when your touch told you that it was very much real.

“You didn’t throw that on this morning.”

He shrugged. You rolled your eyes and disposed of your empty coffee cup.

“Well, I knew you’d follow me. It’s why I told John to stay home. Three’s a crowd.”

He raised his eyebrows. 

“For staying inconspicuous,” you huffed. You put your hands on your hips and narrowed your eyes at him. “Now, where’s the best place I can get some new clothes? I need to wear less…elastic.” 

You wrinkled your nose at your state of dress and raised your gaze to meet Sherlock’s.

“Apparently, Mrs. Hudson doesn’t know my size as well as you do.”

Sherlock grimaced. But he turned to the street and hailed a taxi. He opened the door and you threw yourself to the other side. He took his seat next to you and closed the door, instructing the driver to a nearby shopping centre. 

You propped your elbow on the door and stared out the window. 

“You’re paying,” you grumbled. Turning to him, you smirked. “Actually, Maxx Slickbooty is. I hear you’re a fan of his work.”

The cabbie raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror. Sherlock just clasped his hands between his knees and looked downward. Rolling your eyes, you resumed looking out the window for the rest of the ride.

When you arrived, Sherlock paid the driver per your request. You put your sunglasses back over the brim of your hat and strut inside.

A weekday afternoon, the shopping centre was a desolate wasteland. A few leisurely shoppers traipsed about. But your heart leaped at the peaceful stillness of the public world.

You bit your lip and leaned in to study the directory. 

“Do I even want to know where you got my, um, clothes?” you murmured. 

Silence.

You popped upright and turned to the solemn detective. Crossing your arms, you let out an exasperated exhale.

“Holmes, I’m trying here.”

Silence.

You shook your head and marched off to an intriguing boutique. Your sulking shadow followed close behind you. You weren’t sure exactly why he was there and it seemed that neither did he.

Examining the different tops, you yanked one off the hanger and draped it over the front of your body.

“What do you think? Could I punch a guy and not tear a seam?”

His eyes flickered up and down your body. You tilted your head to await his typically vocal opinion. But he glanced back down at the floor.

“You are the worst,” you mumbled as you threw the hanger back on the rack. You spun around and crossed your arms. He met your gaze with sorrowful eyes.

“John told me to not shut you out. So, I’m trying. I’m trying. For him. So, out of my love for him,” you brushed your hand on the side of his face, “will you play a game with me?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “I thought you were done? With both.”

“If I was really done with you, you’d be dead. As much as I enjoy your otherwise unheard of silence, you’re really bumming me out. And _this_ sulking, silent mess isn’t you. So, let’s play something that’s actually fun, shall we?”

You smiled. A sparkle of mischief danced across your eyes. He narrowed his own as the corner of his mouth upturned in the slightest smirk.

“What did you have in mind?”

You removed your hand from his face and put it on your hip. Sherlock’s jaw ticked as you grinned.

“Well, I’m a spy. You’re a detective. Let me put together a cover and you have to tell me my backstory. Characterize them perfectly and it’s your point. Any mistakes and it’s mine. First one to three wins. Mostly because I don’t want to change that much in a fitting room.”

“And when I win?” he asked.

“Um, when I win, I get to sleep in your bed tonight.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Without you in it, jackass.”

“And when I win, you’ll tell me about this organization so we can finally get moving along on the case.” He leaned forward. “Now that your medical restrictions have been lifted.”

You smirked. “Done.”

You abandoned the stuffy boutique and dashed to the nearest department store. Walking across the marbled tile, you swiped a few makeup products to add to your arsenal. 

This wasn’t the first time you got clever with the art of disguise. But it certainly would be the most fun.

In a flurry of inspiration, you ran all around the department store collecting clothes. You bounced from the young women’s department for everyday wear. Then spent some time splurging in the dresses and gowns. You tossed shoeboxes into Sherlock’s available hands.

Arms bursting with hangers and costume jewelry, Sherlock raised his eyebrows when you strutted to the men’s section. You collected your necessities then led him to a dressing room that you mentally claimed as yours for the afternoon.

The entrance was roped off with a sign.

_Closed. Please use the 3rd floor fitting rooms._

Taking that as your invitation, you ducked under the rope and picked out a spacious stall. Sherlock glanced around before following behind. He stood outside your designated space in the seating area and handed you the shoe boxes.

You threw your hangers on the hooks and arranged them by each outfit. You yanked your hat and sunglasses from your head. Then indelicately tossed John’s jumper in the corner, flung off your boots, and fumbled out of your dreadful tracksuit bottoms.

For your first cover, you threw on a white tank top, fleece sweatshirt, and black leggings. You crammed your feet into some trainers and pulled your hair in a high ponytail. Then you slipped your hand into a charm bracelet and swung open the door.

You scratched the side of your face then chewed on your nails. Crossing your arms, you leaned into one hip and glanced all around the room, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. You wrapped your fingers around the charm bracelet and rotated it on your wrist. 

After an anxious swallow, you looked at him and raised your eyebrows.

“Well?”

“Left handed but right footed. You chew your nails but don’t bite them off. It’s a bad habit that your mother always brings to attention whenever you visit home. She’s already judgmental enough about you as it is. 

“That bracelet isn’t one you’d consciously pick. Either a gift or...no, you bought it yourself. Because you want to fit with the rest of the team. But you’re nervous that they haven't accepted you. Can’t stop fidgeting with it. An unconscious decision to either bring their attention to your attempts to blend in or because you’re not used to wearing one. Most likely both.”

You put your hands on your hips and grinned.

“Okay, you’re good.”

“Please challenge me, Agent. Or I’d think you wanted to give away all your secrets. My point.”

You pulled your hair out of the ponytail and shook it out. 

“Game on, Holmes.”

You winked at him and closed the door to the stall. Sherlock smirked and clasped his hands behind his back. He listened to the rhythm of fabric shuffling, you thumping about, and hangers clinking on hooks. The symphony ended with a pull of a mysterious zipper. 

When the door opened, his eyes went wide. You wore a scarlet cocktail dress with a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. A silver necklace with a single rod hanging from it adorned your neckline. Your lipstick perfectly matched your given color scheme. 

You strutted up to him and bit your lip. He took a step back and fell into the chair behind him. Taking that as your cue, you jumped into his lap. His hands flew backward, unsure if he was allowed to touch you.

He had to spare his teeth.

“The question is...your place or mine?” you whispered in his ear.

As quickly as you landed on him, you bounced back to stand up. You crossed your arms and cocked an eyebrow. 

“Lipstick, necklace, and neckline lead the eyes to…” 

His gaze landed exactly where it was meant to. You smirked and leaned forward to press the point.

“Yes?” 

Silence.

“Did your hard drive just short circuit? Need to control, alt, delete to reboot?”

Sherlock blinked firmly exactly three times and shook his head. 

“You’re here for one reason. To take someone home with you. Desperate to escape your haunting loneliness. The ring on your left hand is fake.”

“Of course it’s fake,” you hissed. “I can’t steal anything real from the case.”

“Even so, it would be fake if you did have access to real jewelry. Because you aren’t actually married. You only want to rent love for the evening. Can’t handle commitment. Wearing the ring ensures that you only attract people, men, who want the same. They’ll be gone without you even having to ask them to stay the night.”

You pursed your lips and nodded slowly. He snickered.

“Do we even need a final round?” he assumed.

“Mmmmm, yes.”

“Yes?” He furrowed his brow.

“You couldn’t answer the first question correctly.”

He looked to the side and narrowed his eyes. You gleefully smirked.

“Your place or mine. I wouldn’t take them back to my place.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as his head fell back against the wall. 

“Because they think you’re married. They have to be smart enough to put that together and answer correctly because you, well this cover, isn’t attracted to idiots.”

“And what does that make you?”

He glared at you and you laughed.

“Guess we will need a tie breaker round,” you sang.

You closed the door and slid the lock into place. You wiped the lipstick from your mouth with a tissue and stripped your neck and fingers of the jewelry. Throwing your hands behind your back, you tugged at the zipper. It yielded to you for a few centimeters, but abruptly halted in place at your mid-back.

You grunted and yanked a bit more. But as if defending the detective outside, it refused to budge. You hung your head backward in defeat and huffed a breath.

“I need...help,” you called out.

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“Whatever face you’re making, I can’t see it. My zipper is stuck. I need your help.”

Silence.

“Sherlock! I’m not joking! Help me!”

The lock clicked to signal to him to come in. He slowly rose to his feet and tentatively placed his hand on the stall door and cracked it open. 

For once, you weren’t lying.

He smirked at the sight of your hands still fighting with the infernal zipper. Your hands froze when you felt his breath across your neck and bare shoulders.

“You won’t punch me?”

“I will if you make me stand here any longer,” you deadpanned.

His fingers brushed against yours to relieve you of your struggle. Your hands dropped to your sides as he gracefully slid the zipper down your bare back. His eyes flickered to the corner of the stall to see that the bra he selected for you was carelessly discarded on top of your other clothes.

As the zipper reached your low back, you threw one hand over the bodice and the other just below his hand. You glanced back at him.

“That’s good.” 

Then your eyes flickered to the mirror to meet his in the reflection. 

“Thank you.”

He nodded, closing the door as he stepped out. You clicked the lock back in its rightful place and resumed undressing. Taking your advice from earlier, Sherlock buried his face in his hands and shook his head to reboot. 

Again.

When you opened the door for the third time, Sherlock wasn’t sure what he was expecting. But it certainly wasn’t this.

Your hair was pulled back in a sleek bun. Underneath an eerily familiar overcoat, you wore a men’s black button-up shirt and black trousers. A gold belt buckle glistened at the front of them. You stood with your feet, clad in pristine men’s loafers, a bit farther than shoulder-width apart. 

Most curiously, you had stubble speckled across your face.

He furrowed his brow and closely examined you. You brought one arm across your chest and lifted the other to rest under your chin. Sherlock squinted at the nicotine stains that you drew on your fingernails.

“Is this a joke? I look nothing like that.” 

“What? No. Of course I’m not you. I would do a much better job than this.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. But his moment was stolen by a familiar voice at the door.

“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” Lestrade cocked his head to the side. “You’ve been ignoring all of my calls.”

Sherlock whipped his head around and his eyes went wide. “Because I’m completely uninterested in your incompetent affairs.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

“My God, you look like you just crawled out of a rubbish bin. Is that where you’ve been this whole time?” He turned his head to you. “And who, who’s this?”

You cleared your throat and spoke as lowly as you could.

“Erm, I’m his...special friend.” You smirked. “Don’t tell John though.”

It took every ounce of your professional composure to stifle a laugh as Sherlock bitch slapped you across the face with his eyes.

“Right then…” Lestrade scratched the back of his head. A disgruntled shop assistant marched behind him.

“Excuse me, this area is closed,” he demanded. “What are you all doing here?” 

He wrinkled his nose at the mess before his eyes. “I’m calling security.”

“No, no,” Greg pleaded. He pulled out his badge. “Official police matters. I’ll take care of it.”

The shop assistant scowled. “Fine, but get them out of here right now.”

“Will do.”

The man stomped off with a huff and Greg rolled his eyes. 

“Well, Sherlock. It’s good to see you’ve found someone to occupy your time with. Scotland Yard can’t wait to hear about your more _interesting_ affairs.” He raised his eyebrows. “Now get the hell out of here.”

When Lestrade left, you threw the door closed to wipe off your fake stubble. You changed into some black jeans, a tee-shirt, and John’s jumper. Scrambling, you fit your feet back in your own boots. Then you compiled the rest of your belongings—minus the dreadful tracksuit bottoms—and threw the stall door open. 

You grabbed Sherlock’s hand and yanked him from his seat to dash out of the department store. Leaving the echo of your shameless giggles in your wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My trusty porn star name generator (because we all have those, right?) said that Sherlock's name would be Maxx Slickbooty. You're welcome world. This is the humorous content we deserve after dragging him and torturing reader for 26k+ words. Now, let's get these kids completely shit faced drunk.


	14. A Soldier, Spy, and Sociopath Walk into a Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're welcome

John scrolled through the consulting detective’s inbox to evaluate potential cases. Eventually, you’d yield and accept the willing help of the Hardy Boys. He saw your longing to not be alone in your eyes many times before. But until then, it was better to be safe than sorry and find something to occupy Sherlock’s mind.

For the sake of the walls of 221B.

However, John was shaken from this scrolling trance when you and Sherlock burst into the flat. Consumed in a laughing fit, you threw your head back and howled in delight. Sherlock chuckled as he held the door open for you.

“I can’t believe you told the taxi driver his son dropped out of school to become a beach bum in California!”

“It was the truth.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what that is,” you giggled.

John raised an eyebrow. 

You giggled. You. You just giggled. He never thought he’d live to see the day.

“Hey, when did you leave?” he asked the detective.

Sherlock closed the door and caught his breath. 

“Just after her,” he panted.

John furrowed his brow and closed his laptop. He narrowed his eyes at the pile of takeout boxes delicately balanced in your hand. You tossed your hat and sunglasses on the couch and held out a box.

“Chicken breast, garlic mashed potatoes, and asparagus.”

You beamed at him. He tilted his head to the side and accepted your offering. You set your own late lunch on the table next to his laptop and retrieved a fork for him from the kitchen. 

Sherlock sank into the couch and picked at his basket of chips. You handed John his fork with a smile and reunited with your own meal. You threw yourself on the couch next to Sherlock and seized the most tempting chip from the top of the pile.

“Why didn’t I get any chips?” John asked.

“Hm?” You raised an eyebrow at him mid-bite. After a swallow, you followed up. “I didn’t think you ate anything fried.”

“Not true.”

“Oh, well here.” 

You bounced up from the couch and gave John your lunch. Sherlock felt the weight of the couch shift with your movement. You swiped the box of chicken from John’s hands and sat back down. After opening the box, you speared a selection of potatoes with your new fork.

John glanced at the basket of fish and chips then back to you and Sherlock snickering at each other.

“Just what the bloody hell is going on?”

You and Sherlock froze. He furrowed his brow at John.

“We’re eating.”

John let out an exasperated sigh. 

“The last time I saw you two, she punched you in the face, you were sulking in your room, neither of you could stand to be around each other without threat of physical harm. What the hell happened?”

“John.” You finished off another bite of asparagus. “I thought you’d be happy we _aren’t_ trying to murder each other.”

“I am, but—”

_Beep._

John pulled out his phone to check his latest text.

“Probably Lestrade,” Sherlock predicted before tossing another chip in his mouth.

As prophesized, John raised his eyebrows at the cryptic message.

“Looks like you have some handsome competition,” he muttered out loud.

He squinted at you and you stifled a giggle.

“I was not involved,” you pleaded.

“You’re a liar.”

“Aw, John. You know me so well.”

Sherlock nudged your knee with his. “Stop evading. We still need to determine our tiebreaker.”

“Tiebreaker? I thought you two were done with games.” 

Still studying Sherlock’s face, you murmured, “Things change. Do keep up, John.”

John gulped and tentatively bit into a chip. This might be worse than you two not speaking to each other.

“Tiebreaker,” Sherlock spoke lowly, redirecting your attention to the pressing matter at hand.

“I don’t think we should.”

“Why? Because you’ll lose?”

“No, because things tend to get out of hand rather quickly with the two of us. One of us has to look out for John.”

“John’s fine. Look at him,” Sherlock gestured to the poor doctor’s still dumbfounded face.

“He looks ill, Holmes. I don’t know what twisted definition of _fine_ you’re using.”

John furrowed his brow and redirected his attention to his lunch. This was not good news for him at all.

“Drinks tonight,” Sherlock murmured.

“You’re trying to ask me out after I punched you in the face?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes.

“No, drinks. I’m sure you’ll enjoy tormenting me in my inebriated state.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “You say that like I’ll win…”

He smirked.

“Oooh,” you puckered your lips. “You’re baiting me and it’s working and I hate you for that.”

You tossed your half empty container on the coffee table. After brushing your hands on a napkin, you flung your back to the couch and crossed your arms.

“Game on, Holmes. But only if John comes with.”

“Me?”

“Of course, you should get out too.”

“I thought you said three’s a crowd?” Sherlock pouted.

“Two men following me around when I’m shopping for jeans, yeah. But not at a bar.”

“Pub.”

“Whatever.

“Fine. Tonight,” Sherlock confirmed.

You shrugged in acceptance and leaped from the couch to head upstairs. Upon the first step to your ascension, you spun around and scowled at him.

“And for God’s sake, Holmes. Clean yourself up. That guy was right. You look like you crawled out of a dumpster. It’s embarrassing.”

You shuffled up the stairs and dashed into the bathroom to follow your own advice. John let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. 

“So you two,” he nodded to Sherlock. “You two are good?”

“Better,” he muttered without looking up from his final chips.

“Is she really as strong, physically, as she claims?”

Sherlock glanced at John's concerned face.

“Yes. If she wanted you to think she’s weak, you wouldn’t have to wonder.”

John pursed his lips and nodded. 

Better was better. That was all either of them could ask for, right?

The club thumped to the beat of pulsing music, blazing lights, and free spirits. You stood around a circular metal table with Sherlock and John.

“This is NOT a pub OR a bar!” you shouted.

“Easier to hide in plain sight, right?” Sherlock goaded.

You shrugged. He actually did a decent job of picking a spot.

Clean shaven, he was in his usual dress along with his signature coat and scarf. You clasped your hands in front of you and leaned over the table. Since you weren’t hunting tonight, you wore your stolen black jeans and a simple grey tee-shirt. 

You smirked at him with unbridled mischief in your eyes.

“I’ll get the first round,” Sherlock announced. 

“Vodka tonic,” you requested. He narrowed his eyes at you. You shook your head.

“I’m not starting with beer.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock gave you a nod and strode to the bar.

“You look great, John!” You raised your eyebrows at his corduroy jacket. “If there are any ladies you’d like to talk to, I can certainly help.”

“Do I even want to know how?”

“I promise I won’t threaten them!”

He glanced down, shaking his head. After a chuckle, he cocked an eyebrow at you.

“So you two, you’re good now?”

“Good might be generous, but we’re better.”

“Better’s a start.”

You smiled. Sherlock arrived and set one beer in front of John and the other in front of himself. You relieved his hand of your drink and took a sip.

“Okay, Holmes. What game do you have in mind for tonight?”

“All in due time, Agent.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Didn’t think you were one for foreplay.”

John choked on his first sip of beer. 

A bloody great start to the evening.

For the first round of drinks, Sherlock primarily observed you and John. He studied your mannerisms. The way you bit your lip when you listened earnestly. How you stirred your drink with your straw in two anticlockwise circles before taking a sip.

Mouth agape, you stared at Sherlock and blinked a few times.

“You didn’t know the earth goes around the sun?”

He shot daggers at John with his eyes. “You can’t stop telling people that can you?”

John snickered and you joined him. Glancing at the men’s empty glasses, you raised your eyebrows. 

“I’ll grab the next round!”

Drink in hand, you walked to the bar and returned with a round of full beverages. Sherlock already started feeling the whispers of inebriation tickle the very edges of his mind. However, he easily managed to continue transfixing his focus on you.

By the third round, you knocked over your glass and sent your drink across the table. You threw your hands in the air and gasped.

“Shit! That’s. No, let me clean this up.”

You strut to the bar with an extra looseness to your step. The bartender called someone over to clean up the mess and gave you another drink. You thanked him with a wink and bounced back to Sherlock and John.

Sherlock blinked a few times when you returned.

“You know you can, you can drink with us.”

“Mmmm? Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“No. You wait for us to finish and pace your own. When you get the next round, you always return a nearly full glass. Just spilled the last one. That’s why you didn’t get beer. Less noticeable discrepancy.”

You swallowed.

“I—”

He waved a gently intoxicated hand through the air. “You don’t have to explain. I just wanted you to know that I know.”

“Of course you did.”

Your eyes flickered to John. He cocked his head to the side and squinted to examine the fresh drink in your hand.

“Heeey, Sherlock. You’re right,” he mused.

You huffed a sigh and slammed the drink on the table. You strut back to the bar, leaving John and Sherlock staring at each other for a longer-than-necessary moment.

When you returned, you had three ice cold shots of vodka and a beer delicately placed in hand. Rapid fire, you downed the shots and completed your alcoholic trust fall with a clank of glass on metal.

You shook your face and swallowed. Then outstretched your arms and wrapped your hands around the edge of the table.

“Alright, boys. We’ve leveled the playing field. Name the game, Holmes.”

“Never Have I Ever.”

You snickered. “Of course, cheap interrogation. You won’t stand a chance.”

“I’ll start,” he nodded. “Never have I ever been on a university sports team.”

You rolled your eyes and drank a gulp of beer. “I know what you’re doing.”

John cocked an eyebrow. Your gaze flickered between him and Sherlock.

“Mkay, Hardy Boys, never have I ever done hard drugs.”

They both brought lips to glasses in full confession.

“John?” You wrinkled your brow in disbelief.

“Acid trip in uni. One time.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at you and Sherlock. With a suspicious grin, he started.

“Never have I ever pretended to be attracted to someone to get what I wanted.”

Without moving your heads, you and Sherlock glanced at each other before drinking your beers. You frowned at John. But he took no notice of your displeasure.

Sherlock cleared his throat and bore his eyes into yours. “Never have I ever faked my death in America.”

You stared at him blankly. He narrowed his eyes and leaned his head forward.

“Spy’s promise!” you pleaded. “Which, I know doesn’t mean much. But it’s the truth.” 

You scowled at him. He nodded to accept your response. After a sigh, you met his gaze for your next question.

“Never have I ever infantilized women with pet names.”

John wrinkled his brow. “That’s an...odd one.”

“No,” Sherlock commanded with intentional annunciation of the word. You took a deep breath. 

“Alright, John. Your go.”

He swallowed and glared at the two of you. 

“Really? Because it seems like I’m missing out on something.”

“John—”

He raised a finger to silence you. “No, no. I’m not playing whatever game you two are. I am, however, playing _this_ game.” 

He pointed to his beer. “So, let me take _my_ turn now.” 

John narrowed his eyes at both of you. His voice was sharp with danger.

“Never have I ever drugged or tried to drug someone to manipulate information from them.”

You and Sherlock started taking a cautious sip.

“Never have I ever pretended to be a damsel in distress to gain the upper hand.”

Still drinking, you and Sherlock glanced at each other with wide eyes. Mercilessly, John continued.

“Never have I ever faked my death nor helped someone fake my death. Never have I ever eviscerated a person purely with my wit. Never have I ever left a trail of clues for someone to figure out just to test how smart they are. Nor followed a trail just to prove how clever I am.”

He smirked at the distress in your eyes as you and Sherlock gulped your confessions in perfect synchronicity.

“And finally, never have I ever shot a gun out of boredom,” John concluded.

You and Sherlock slammed your empty glasses to the table with a gasp. Talking over each other, the two of you woefully embellished on the final admission.

“The wall had it coming.”

“He had it coming!”

“He?” Sherlock and John asked in unison.

“You’ve met them. You know the type.” You crossed your arms and glared at John. “Happy now?”

“No, because there’s one more question that I can’t answer.”

“Which is?” Sherlock deadpanned.

John pursed his lips and shook his head at the ceiling. He sucked in a breath and scowled at the both of you.

“What the BLOODY HELL did I do to deserve such PSYCHOPATHIC, MANIPULATIVE, MURDER OBSESSED, MANIACS for friends?!”

“High functioning sociopath.”

“Traumatized and abused spy.”

The three of you stared at each other for a few breaths. The pulse of the club infused with that of your own hearts. After a moment, you cut the tension with a snicker.

“Yes, John. What did you do to deserve us? You must have done something awful.”

He put his hands on his hips and looked down, shaking his head. 

“God let me live and then stuck me with you two. I am paying for my sins.” He sighed and raised his eyebrows. “Now, while I am here, can you two just put away whatever weird clever and cleverer foreplay this is? For my sake.”

You frowned at him. “Of course, sorry John.”

Sherlock huffed and glanced around the club. You elbowed him in the shoulder and gestured to John with your eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

The next hour consisted of you and Sherlock watching John down his insufferable choice in companionship through various modes of alcohol. The two of you continued to indulge in your own doctor approved shots of escapism. But, admittedly, neither of you could keep up with the soldier’s pace.

Not that either of you had as strong of a motivator.

“So who, who did Lestrade text me about earlier?” John hiccuped. “Why, what’s competition? And who’s handsomer than me?”

You snorted a laugh. “Meeee, I’m the, the hot one.”

“For who?”

You stroked the side of Sherlock’s cheek with the back of your hand. “This delicious bastard. He said that I, that I would be a b-better boyfriend than you.”

“Ohh.” He shook out his face. “You would punch his teeth, so yeah, yeah you’re a better boyfriend.”

“My p-perfect teeth are _none of your BUSINESS,_ ” Sherlock spat, right eye spasming in a futile attempt to protect his drunken face.

“Only when you’re being extra, extra creepy, Sherl,” you giggled. “Sherly? Ohh my gosh. Do people, do people call you that? Can I call you Sherly?”

“I will punch you in your teeth if you ever, if you ever call me that again, Agent.”

“ _EX-Agent,_ ” you corrected, swinging a finger through the air. “Agent of _death._ ”

“Why are we all so, so obsessed with dead bodies?” John threw his head back and downed another lemon drop shot. “How many tongues do we have in, in the fridge? Did they expire by now? What happened to the, the kidney in the freezer?”

Sherlock pointed to his nose. “I iced my face.”

You nearly choked on your gulp of beer. “Serves you RIGHT! That kidney’s taking out the _GARBAGE_ even after it’s removed from the, the body.”

“RUBBISH! You uncultured swine!” Sherlock scowled.

“It IS a load a rubbish, isn’t it?” You wrinkled your nose.

THUD.

“John, John.” You shook his shoulders. His cheek was plastered to the metal table. 

“Bwhaa?” He bolted upright and shook out his face. “I’m fine, I fine. What happendeded?”

“You lost another round of, of Never Have I Ever. You have to drink again.”

“Ermm? What was the, the you know.”

“From Sherlock. Never, never have I ever written a thank you note.”

John scrunched his face. “Aw, oh yeah. I need to….”

GULP.

“Hey! That was mine,” you whined.

Beer in hand, Sherlock swung his arm and slammed it into your chest. “Yours I’ll have.”

“You just dumped your beer all over my boobs you horny dumbfuck!”

John pointed at you and howled in laughter.

“That’s the, the best feel you’ll ever get of your boyfriend, Sherly!”

Finally realizing what just happened, Sherlock’s pupils blew wide open in precisely .01 drunken seconds.

“Oh my, oh no. That’s not, but yes, but no.”

He shook his head, eyes never leaving the wet stain over your now clinging shirt.

“I’m only your boyfriend in your dreams, Holmes,” you barked.

“Huh?” He blinked firmly exactly three times.

“Did you, did you just reboot your brain?” John cocked his head to the side.

“My hard drive is, is…intact. No re, rebooting necessary.”

“Cleary h-hard elsewhere,” you snickered.

John buried his face in his hands. “Okay, okay, I have to ask. I will re-regret. But did you two, did you…”

You and Sherlock stared back at him blankly. John spun his hand in the air, intoxicated brain at a loss for words and sober brain completely unwilling to finish the sentence. Both brains were equally ready to vomit at the response.

You scrunched your face on one side. Then at exactly the same time, yours and Sherlock’s eyes went wide with inebriated enlightenment.

“NO,” you both shouted.

“Won’t happen.” You wrinkled your nose. “He tried to drug me for sex and information.”

“I tried to, to sex you for drugs. No, information. I tried to information you for sex.”

“He’s not touching this, touching me. I can’t trust him.”

“She, she’s the most manipulative woman I’ve ever met.”

“He has the brain of a genius and the social sk-skills of a 16-year-old boy who jerks off to Tchaikovsky to feel superior to the garden variety porn of his peers.”

John upturned his lip. “That’s is wildly specific. And oh, oh no. I see it. Why do I have to see it?”

“She’s a, what, what are you?!” Sherlock scrunched his face in equal parts confusion, disgust, four pints of beer, and an unknown number of shots.

“Brilliant kisser,” you teased.

“Why yes, yes I am,” John pursed his lips and nodded.

You giggled and Sherlock rolled his eyes. You raised an eyebrow at him.

“Thinking about testing the, the waters with your _other_ less handsome boyfriend?”

THUD.

“Nooo, John noooo, not again,” you groaned.

You leaned in to shake his shoulders. 

Nothing.

You looked at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. But following his eye line, you rolled your eyes.

“Jealous? The man is unconscious? He can’t even see my boobs in his face. C’mon, Holmes. We have to get him home.”

You swung John’s arm over your shoulder and dragged him out of the club. Breath heaving, you turned your head to see Sherlock stumbling in a zig-zag behind you. 

“Get over here and hail a cab! Apparently I’m a b-better, better boyfriend than both you morons.”

Sherlock’s feet scuffled across the sidewalk. He teetered on his toes to allure the attention of your £17 chariot. He opened the door and you tossed John inside. His head smacked the glass of the window with a groan. 

You grabbed the top of the cab to follow after him. But Sherlock yanked your wrist back. You spun around and slammed into his chest, meeting his gaze with wide, glassy eyes.

He removed his scarf and clumsily wrapped it around your neck, carefully covering his masterpiece of beer-induced hormonal dumbfuckery that he painted across your chest.

“Can’t have, can’t have the cabbie looking,” he stuttered. Then spun you back around and shoved you into the seat next to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang with me [on Tumblr](http://melanoms.tumblr.com) for behind the scenes, sneak peeks, and more fun.


	15. Empty Hearts & Empty Heads

The stairs to John’s room moaned as another unconscious body ascended them for the second time since your arrival at 221B. 

Elbows hooked under John’s arms, your back protested as you fumbled one foot behind the other. Sherlock followed your lead with a drunken grasp on John’s ankles and reality.

CLUNK.

“Watch it!” you hissed.

Yanking on the bottom hem of John’s trousers, Sherlock tossed his boot into the air and snuck his palm underneath to catch it.

“Oops.”

“Don’t ‘oops’ me! You’re lucky that wasn’t his head or I would kill you.”

“You’d, you’d try.”

“I’ve faced worse than you, Holmes. I would win. There’s only one man I can’t beat and he’s certainly not you.”

The two of you barely managed to get to the top of the stairs. Sherlock released John’s ankles the moment they were over flat floorboards.

“You’re an ass,” you grumbled.

“Hm?”

You dragged John into his room and next to his bed. 

“At least, at least help me get him in bed,” you groaned, feebly trying to lift John upright.

Sherlock shrugged. But ultimately hobbled to John’s rescue. He dutifully helped you place the doctor securely in his bed. You wiped your hands on your jeans and released an exasperated sigh before fumbling down the stairs in inebriated glee.

Once on the first floor, you flung yourself on the couch and kicked off your boots. You seized a bottle of vodka from underneath and tossed aside the lid. Bringing your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them, you took a homely swig.

You patted the spot next to you as an invitation to Sherlock. He finally made it to the first floor of the flat. In reply, he tossed his coat on a hanger and flopped next to you. He swiped the bottle from your hand and squinted at it.

“Where—”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

He pursed his lips and nodded before taking a gulp himself. He handed the bottle back to you.

“You know,” you murmured, “that wasn’t really a, a tiebreaker game. You still interrogated me. Lousy job too. Even John, f-figured it out.”

“Mm, mmhmm.”

“Just how, how drunk are you?”

“John is almost as pretty as you are.”

You snickered and took another sip. He turned his head to look at you.

“Almost.”

You shook your head and took another sip. “You’re a mess.”

Sherlock leaned over to gently remove the bottle from your hand. He delicately placed it on the coffee table, as if any abrupt change to the very air around you would break everything.

Your fingers surrendered to his lead as your body slowly unfurled. You turned to him with one leg crossed on the couch and the other dangling over the edge. Hands resting on your ankle, you outstretched your gaze into his glassy eyes.

“I’m un-unaware of the beautiful,” he murmured.

You drew in a soft breath. Furrowing your brow, you parted your curious lips to speak. But he continued before you had the chance.

“Except for when it coming to you.”

“You are, wow, wasted.” 

“Bewitched.”

He leaned in and wrapped his hand around your neck, stroking the delicate skin just behind your ear with his thumb. You turned your head to examine the physical evidence of his confession. Seemingly under the same trance, you returned your eyes to his.

“It’s my job. It’s just, just attraction, you animal.”

He inched closer and narrowed the space between you. You could feel his hot desire across your lips, smelling the alcohol and unspoken words from his breath. 

“My mind is uninterested in the, in the dullness of physical beauty.”

Biting your lip, you sucked in a breath: stone-cold sober for a single, cautious instant.

“I will cut out your heart and swallow it whole.” You gulped. “It’s what I’m designed to do.”

He curled his fingers inward to tilt your head closer to his.

“Good thing I don’t need it for anything else,” he professed.

“Sher—”

Lips to lips. 

Breath to breath. 

Sherlock Holmes yielded to his need; the sharpness of his mind having been whittled away by an intoxicating spell of you and far too much liquor for a painfully sober man. You raised your eyebrows in horrified surprise. But he refused to be distracted by your defenses.

Succumbing to his gentle will, your eyelids fluttered closed. You drank in his offering through your trembling lips. 

He felt unfamiliar. You expected control, precision, and a demand for dominance. Yet, even in his inebriated stupor, Sherlock stood guard over his promise to you. 

He was done playing games. 

The types of games that demanded power over you and your mind. The types of games that ruptured rifts in any hope of human connection. The types of games that continually asked you to push the boundaries of what you had to do in a world of men you could never trust.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and guided him on top of you. Your bodies unfurled across the couch and melted into one another. Perfectly synchronized in a rhythm that no science could ever explain. 

In between desperate, aching kisses, you sucked in your breath. Your lungs prayed for air. But you taunted them with shallow morsels. Just enough to survive.

Sherlock tangled one hand in your hair and drifted the other to your waist. You tensed under the gentleness of his touch and raked your fingers down his back.

“Please,” you gasped before bringing his lips to yours again. You slipped your tongue into his mouth and danced across his. He eagerly met your pace and rhythm with tender fervor.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He paused. 

And yet, you continued to pepper his jawline and neck with pleading kisses. He leaned his head back to grant you easier access and gently moaned from deep within his throat. You could feel his satisfaction rumble across your lips.

“Sherlock, please don’t,” you whimpered. 

He furrowed his brow and redirected his gaze to you. 

“Trust, you don’t trust me?”

You cupped his cheek in one hand and brought his lips back to yours. He closed his eyes in surrender and accepted that as your answer. However, you, a stolen woman at that moment, could not allow anything to be taken at face value. 

You pleaded to him between desperate kisses.

“I, I,” you breathed. “Not myself. I don’t trust myself.”

He stroked the side of your face with his thumb and continued to worship the feeling of your lips entangled with his, pressing himself more firmly into your body with every breath.

“Sherlock, I…” You sucked in an aching gasp of air and nipped his bottom lip. “I need you to stop. I need you to stop because I can’t.”

Upon the feeling of a dangerous dampness under his palm, Sherlock withdrew his face from yours. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of tears glistening from your eyes and decorating your cheeks.

He furrowed his brow and swallowed. “Not good?”

“No, good,” you sobbed. “Very good.”

You shook your head furiously. Your eyes slammed shut in a futile attempt to prevent the onslaught of your breaking heart. 

...and the look on his face when he learned just how weak you really are.

“That’s why I can’t. I can’t, Sherlock. Please, I’m, I’m begging you.”

He tilted his head to the side and slowly untangled his body from yours. Upright on the couch, he watched as you clenched your jaw and turned your head away from him. You ripped his scarf from around your neck and shook it out in front of him.

“Take it back, take it all back. I-I—”

But you sucked in a breath at the feeling of his hand over yours. Slowly turning to face his disgust…

Wait, that wasn’t disgust. 

It was…was that remorse?

...you bit your lip and swallowed.

With his fingertips, he applied a tender pressure over your knuckles with far more precision than his inebriated state should have allowed. You lowered your arm with his permission. Then curled it back to your chest and looked away. Your eyelids flickered open and closed in an attempt to blink away your shame.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

You stared at the bloodstain in the floorboards. Sherlock rose to his feet and retreated to his room. But before he closed the door, he grimaced at the sight of you curled in the fetal position and sliding your gun under your pillow.

_ loud. _

The sun was far too loud the next morning.

Scrunching your face in displeasure, your fingers danced underneath the couch and latched around your sunglasses. You threw them on to shield your screeching eyes.

_ What happened last night? _

Club. John. Drinks. Sherlock.

At one point in the evening, John shrieked across the table, “Never have I ever  _ killed a man! _ ”

Then you all took a drink to confess your sins before a disappointed, but not entirely surprised, God. You were pretty sure that Sherlock tried to deduce some conclusions about the lonely existence of a glowing woman. However, she was radiant regardless of who’s attention she stole considering the fact that she was a neon pink sign.

John was out by the time that you got home. And Sherlock, well, he followed close behind. Your poor boys would need help recovering.

Rising from the grave, you elevated your upper body with a slow precision that desperately tried to compensate for your shameless commitment to intoxication the night before.

It didn’t work.

But committed to the righteous cause of honest friendship—this was friendship, right?—you endured the merciless pounding of your head and crept to the door in search of hopeless remedies.

John arrived on the first floor of the flat still dressed in the previous evening’s clothes. A king’s breakfast openly spread itself across the tables for the three jesters of the morning.

Sitting on the couch and nibbling on honeyed toast, you gestured to the food as his invitation to join you. He nodded and instantly regretted it. 

John deemed a cup of coffee worthy and sank into a chair at the table. With a sip, he committed his absent mind to stare off into the equally empty void. Perhaps he would find solace there.

After a period of time, only measured by a few groans, Sherlock emerged from his room clad in pyjamas, a dressing robe, and helmet of tangled curls. He flopped into his chair with his own grunting contribution to your melodious display of what the fuck happened last night.

As you dedicated your morning to taking a single bite out of every available breakfast option, Sherlock’s eyes flickered to you in curious hunger. You hadn’t said anything—by the graces of your silent pact of three. But after that ended, would you?

If he remembered, you certainly must.

Always burdened by the insufferable amount of compassion and sentiment of other people, Sherlock realized how woefully ill-equipped he was to handle your unbridled display of emotion. Too bad you hadn’t just killed him last night.

At least he could solve that mystery.

Deeming no food worthy beyond, at most, three bites, you rose to your feet and put on your hat. You sulked to the door and tossed your hand over the handle. Sherlock tensed as he stared forward.

_ Ask John. Ask John. Ask. _

“Erm, ooh.” John scrunched his face. “Back, when…”

_ Will you? _

“...be back?”

You tilted your head in the tiniest of nods.

“Air, just getting some air.”

You left the flat and Sherlock melted back into his chair. His eyes flickered to the couch to see his scarf draped over the armrest.

What the fuck happened last night.


	16. The Mortician

You welcomed the glistening air across your cheeks as you haunted the streets surrounding 221B. After a few blocks of achingly slow movement, you settled down at a lonely bench. Slouching over the armrest, you cradled your face in your palm and took a deep breath.

Your eyes lazily followed the trajectories of varying pedestrians. But eventually, your mind succumbed to the curiosity of unanswered questions. 

You slowly descended into the caverns of your heart. You barely managed to wriggle between the bars of the iron gates to access the world within. Welcoming you back after lifetimes of singing to the empty air, the gentle beats of dripping water sang to their praises to their rightful audience. 

Refamiliarizing yourself with the terrain, you traced your fingers over the damp rock and sucked in a breath. Great stalagmites erupted from the ground below. But you hung your head at the dangling, broken stalactites that would never touch them.

Skin prickling from the cool air, you continued your descent into the depths of the cave. A collection of glowing orbs danced around you, determined to illuminate your discoveries with steadfast companionship.

The cave was riddled with the shrapnel of broken promises hidden in the dark. But as you continued to explore deeper and deeper, you drew your brows together at the sight of a pillar in the distance. 

With shallow breathing, your feet scrapped the pebbles underneath your boots as you cautiously approached the spectacle. Lips parted in unquenched curiosity, your fingertips grazed the solid formation. You aligned your palm at the hourglass center and applied pressure. 

It didn’t break.

You raised a brow. Then you wrapped your hands around the same point and shook it. But once again, the pillar did not yield to your doubt.

Finally, you took a few steps backward. You bit your lip as you crouched down for a running start. With full force, you raced ahead and slammed your heel into the rock with a kick. But, being the forgiving being it was, the pillar did not give way.

You put one palm on it and bent over to catch your breath. Gentle clouds of condensation drifted from your lips. You blinked a few times then threw your head back. But your eyes went wide at the carving in the cavernous ceiling above.

There, as if inscribed by the hand of God Herself, was a single name.

JOHN

You pursed your lips and swallowed. Yes, this was friendship indeed.

You returned to the real world and blinked a few times to reacclimate yourself. Slowing rising to your feet, you drew in a deep breath and crept back to 221B Baker Street.

When you arrived at the front door, the hair on the back of your neck stood on end. Your eyes widened as your heartbeat quickened in pace. 

The lock was broken. 

Using just the pads of your fingertips, you gently opened the door by just a crack. You could hear voices. But with a sharp inhale through the nose, you instantly knew what you were walking into.

Ashworth was here to collect.

Hand already withdrawing your gun, you created just enough space for you to slip through the door. You pressed your back to the wall and inched up the stairs. But stopped a few steps from the open door at the top of the stairway to listen in.

“Not John, you can’t have him,” Sherlock spoke lowly.

“If I remember correctly, Holmes, you gave me a blank check.”

“I gave you a favor. Not a person. He isn’t mine to give away.”

“You _are_ stupider than you let on. Don’t you remember my line of work? They’re the same thing.”

“Plea—”

“Not another word out of your mouth, soldier, or I will blow your brains out.”

You grit your teeth and took shallow breaths. You took one more step closer to the door.

“The Americans will be here soon to complete our deal and I expect a bloodbath. I’m building an army. But good help is rare these days.”

He paused.

“Then Jim suggested that I collect on my favor from Sherlock Holmes. A doctor, soldier, and man with an insatiable thirst for danger. Oh, I see why you keep him around as your pet.”

“He’s not my pet,” Sherlock growled. “I have no interest in the business of owning human beings.”

“What is it then? The power of friendship? Love?”

Ashworth’s laughs bellowed through the air.

“Your attachment only makes me want him more. And what are you going to do about it, Holmes?”

Another step.

Silence.

“Considering the fact that you’re holding John with a gun to his head and you have me on my knees with two of your men pointing their weapons at my own, nothing.”

“There’s a good boy.”

“But please, go ahead and do what you do best and inspect your merchandise. I assure you my attachment has nothing to do with sentiment.”

Pause.

“He’s slow. He’s average. He can barely keep up with me. Always moaning about human lives at stake and he’s intolerable without his morning tea.”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“I am not playing tricks on you. I am a man of science; simply stating facts. Truthfully, you’ll be doing me a favor if you rid my flat of this waste of air. I can’t even smoke with him here. Without the grinding sounds of his dull thinking and incessant judgment, I might actually get something done.”

“You can really talk. You’re almost convincing.”

“I know you don’t trust anything that’s too good to be true. I couldn’t outright be grateful that you’re the one who’s actually doing me a favor. But I only want to enter into an agreeable business arrangement. I can’t keep writing you blank checks. Now please, inspect. If he meets your standards, then we can call it a deal.”

Shuffling. Footsteps.

“Alright, Watson. Spin around for—”

“VATICAN CAMEOS!”

By Sherlock’s command, John ducked just as you whipped around the corner. You eliminated Ashworth with a clean shot to the head. His blood and brain matter splattered across mantlepiece. 

The skull, for one, was grateful to reunite with such long lost anatomy.

Sherlock sprang to his feet. As one of the gunmen was about to squeeze the trigger, Sherlock twisted his wrist and sent the bullet straight into the chest of the other. 

He stumbled backward and slammed into the bookshelf on the right of the mantlepiece. His body descended to the floor and the life extinguished from his eyes.

Sherlock yanked the weapon from the remaining gunman. He aimed to kill and the man raised his arms in surrender, standing just behind Sherlock’s chair.

Without lowering your firearm, you marched forward. It took all of your will to ignore the piercing ringing in your ears. Your eyes bore into the lackey as if your gaze alone could eviscerate him on the spot. 

Once you were next to the dead gunman, you glanced down and kicked his weapon to John. He scooped it up and joined you and Sherlock in directing the line of fire at the sole survivor.

“Are you alright, John?” you shouted without removing your eyes from the target.

“Doing just fine now.”

You smirked at the satisfaction in his voice. The three of you paused for a moment as the ringing subsided to a dull roar.

“Well played, Holmes. Your observation skills do come in handy.”

“Toe of a familiar boot hardly requires the mind of a genius.”

You snickered and walked over to the gunman and tilted your head.

“How about we have a little chat?” you sang.

“I am not telling you anything,” he spat.

“Mmm, that’s what they all say. But look at you. You have managed to piss off three of the most dangerous people on Baker Street. If only Mrs. Hudson were here. You’d have the full set.”

He glowered at you and you smiled back. 

“How long before the Americans get here?”

Silence.

You giggled. 

“Oh, I love it when they don’t talk. It makes my job so much more fun!”

You fired a shot just next to his left toe. He jerked and tensed his muscles. A flash of fear flickered behind his eyes. You let him know that you saw it with a sneer. 

While Ashworth’s weapons had suppressors, yours, unfortunately, did not. You couldn’t keep shooting if you didn’t want to split open the skulls of the very hungover tenants of 221B Baker Street. 

Then, again, you never needed a gun to extract information.

With a tilt of your head, you gestured to Sherlock.

“This one likes to shoot up his apartment for fun. They’re used to gunfire around here. No one is coming to your rescue.”

You leaned in closer. 

“I won’t miss a second time. There are so many nonlethal places I could shoot you. And best case scenario, we have a doctor here who can bring you back just so I can do it again. Now tell me, when are the Americans coming?”

“Two weeks,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

“That’s a good boy,” you snickered. “Now, I’m going to reach into your jacket pocket and remove that bulging phone you’re indecently flashing to everyone. Try anything and they will shoot you.”

He grinned.

“Oh, don’t be so happy. This one here is a clinical sociopath. He won’t care if I get shot in the crossfire. Isn’t that right, Mr. Holmes?”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve spread her blood across the floorboards.”

The man’s face drained of all color.

“So play nice,” you teased. “Or we’ll both pay for it.”

You reached out and plucked his phone from his pocket. You opened up the lock screen and gazed at the ceiling.

“Passcode…” you murmured.

“It’s—”

“Not from you. I’m not interested in the self destruct button.”

“1984,” Sherlock said.

_Click._

You bit your lip and winked at him.

“Thank you.” You turned to the gunman. “Now, who’s second in command?”

Silence.

You threw your head back and groaned. 

“You just love to have fun don’t you?”

You glanced between Sherlock and John and set your gun on the mantlepiece. You pulled your knife out of your boot and sliced into your hand. Squeezing it above him, you let your blood drip across his face. His muscles contorted in disgust and horror.

“You’re next, big boy. Who’s in charge when the boss is dead?”

Silence.

You slapped him across the face with your split open palm, ignoring the searing pain screaming through your nerve endings.

“Williams,” he cringed.

“Thank you.”

You set down the knife and redirected your focus to his phone. 

Opening his messages, you evaluated the syntax and phrasings of his previous communications. You started typing away.

_Riley here early. Killed Ashworth. Prepare._

You picked up your gun from the mantlepiece and pointed it at your hostage. With a smile, you outstretched the phone to Sherlock.

“Be a dear and check my work? Don’t mind the blood.”

He nodded and lowered his weapon to evaluate the contents of the phone. After a moment of scrolling, he replied.

“He calls Ashworth the Mortician.”

“Fitting for the name, don’t you think?” You raised our eyebrows. “Make the necessary adjustments and hit send.”

He nodded and completed your request before raising his gun again.

“Alright,” John sighed. “What are going to do with—”

 _PHEW_.

The man collapsed to the floor. You whipped your head to stare at Sherlock with wide eyes. His jaw ticked before he returned his gaze to you.

“Were you not going to...”

“Of course, I was. I just didn't expect...”

He pursed his lips and nodded. Sherlock tossed aside the phone of the dead man.

John lowered his gun and stared at the floor as the blood of all three men pooled together; finally equals in the eyes of death. You slowly approached him and relieved him of his weapon.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“We had to. They couldn’t,” he swallowed, “They couldn’t know that you’re here.”

“Yes. And I’m still sorry.”

“Your hand…”

“It’ll be fine.”

John pursed his lips and stared at you. You opened your mouth to protest. But from the look on his face, you closed it and nodded. You revealed your palm so he could evaluate the damage. 

“Why your hand?” he muttered.

“Fear is more effective than pain. If I can do this to myself, just what would he think I'd do to him.”

John took a deep breath and nodded. He turned around to gather supplies. But you tugged on his wrist to spin him back to you. You threw your arms around your friend, carefully facing your palm outward to not stain his jacket with your remorseful blood.

“John, I’m so, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

He pulled away and smiled, wrapping his hands around your arms.

“Luckily I have three of the most dangerous people on Baker Street to look out for me.”

You nodded and wiped the mist from your eyes. 

“Now, I’m going to clean up that hand of yours. Then we’ll figure out what to do with this, er, mess.” 

“Why couldn’t they have us shoot them on a day when we’re less hungover?”

“The sound alone nearly split my skull. Not as badly as his though.”

John snickered as he gestured to Ashworth’s corpse. You smiled as he walked upstairs to retrieve his medical bag.

“Should we salvage them for parts, Holmes? I hear you need a new kidney.”

You turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. But his focus was completely transfixed on his phone.

It was time to rally the cavalry.


	17. Just a Client

At the St. Bartholomew's Hospital morgue, Molly Hooper frowned at the man before her. 

“You’re just like the last guy. Silent,” she muttered.

He stared back at her from beneath his forever closed eyelids, pinned to the refrigerator tray until someone would claim him. She shrugged and pulled out her clipboard to make a few last minute notes on the body.

“It’s just that it’s been quiet around here lately,” she murmured. “Sherlock hasn’t been by in some time. Not since, well...I don’t know if I should check on him.”

Silence.

She scribbled down some notes.

“I don’t know. It’s probably, probably not my place. What do you think?”

_ Beep. _

Molly furrowed her brow and pulled out her mobile.

“Oh,” she tittered. “Speak of the...well, you know.”

She opened the text.

_I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame._ _SH_

With a sigh, Molly set down her clipboard. She shoved the body back into the fridge and latched the door shut. It would be some time before she could continue the conversation.

_ Beep. _

She pursed her lips and read the follow up text.

_ X3 221B SH _

“Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”

Back at the flat, Sherlock paced around the sitting room with his fingertips pressed against his lips. While John finished stitching your hand on the couch, Sherlock returned from his bedroom dressed in a black button-up and trousers.

“This will catch up to you eventually,” John chided. “You have a lot of scar tissue.”

You grimaced and stared at the floor.

“There’s no point in me telling you this. Is there?”

“Nope.”

You popped your lips for extra emphasis. John set aside the suture kit and sighed.

“Eve, I think it’s about time you told us what’s going on. I know that—”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“You, you couldn’t?” 

John furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to you for a moment. But he withdrew his gaze when you glanced at him. With a sigh, you stood up and fiddled with the wrapping around your palm and redirected your focus to John. 

“I’ll tell you. But first, let’s get rid of these bodies.”

“I’ve taken care of it,” Sherlock said.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Um, this is what you call ‘taken care of’?” You gestured to the expanding pool of blood. “Am I missing something?”

“Her.”

Sherlock pointed to the door right as Molly shuffled through. She dumped her backpack on the floor and set a duffle bag down next to it. Looking at the bodies and the spreading blood, she frowned.

“Sherlock, why did it have to be gunshots? It’s a bigger mess.”

You lurched forward and slammed her against the wall, pinning her clavicle with your forearm. Nostrils flaring and eyes wide, you growled at her.

“Who are you?”

John dashed behind you and tugged on your shoulders. But you didn’t budge. Molly stared back and whimpered through trembling lips. 

“I-I…”

“Eve, she’s okay. She’s our friend.”

You slowly turned your head to study him. Gritting your teeth, you swallowed.

“You can trust her,” he whispered.

With a grunt, you slowly loosened your grip and Molly gasped in relief.

“I’m, I’m sorry,” you skeptically apologized.

She put her hand over her chest and took a few deep breaths. Biting her lip, she shook her head.

“It’s, it’s alright.”

She glanced at Sherlock whose face was otherwise expressionless.

“This is our friend Molly,” John introduced her. “She works at the morgue. She’s the one who provides Sherlock with all the…”

“Bodies. With my dead body.”

“Er, yes.”

“Molly Hooper.” She extended her hand with a nervous smile. You tentatively accepted and shook it. It felt like a dead fish in your firm grip.

“Eve.”

After retracting your hand, you narrowed your eyes at her. Molly held onto her elbow and glanced between you and Sherlock. Smiling awkwardly, she cleared her throat.

“I’m just here to help. I promise.”

Sherlock jerked his head to gesture to the bodies on the floor. They quickly got to work as Molly withdrew various cleaning supplies from her backpack. 

The two worked in perfect rhythm, mopping up blood and erasing the events that transpired only moments ago. Sherlock mixed together detergent and water. He handed the basin to Molly and she scrubbed away at the rug.

He applied a power solution to the bullet holes on the victims. It created a gel-like substance that clotted the last of the bleeding. He picked up a fresh rag and started wiping the blood off the mantlepiece.

Starting with the skull.

You crossed your arms and leaned into one hip. Hands behind his back, John tilted back and forth on his feet. You narrowed your eyes and scrutinized their work.

“So she, she’s the one you text to help you dispose of three bodies?” you breathed.

“Mhmm.” Sherlock set the skull back in its place.

“And you just come running no questions asked?” You squinted at Molly.

“Well, we have a code.”

“Code?”

“A quote,” she swallowed. “From Frankenstein. By the monster when he’s going to burn himself.”

“Right, of course. I always base my codes on British literature.” You scrunched your face. “And you have no worries about who these people are and why they’re dead?”

She giggled. “Well, it’s Sherlock. I’m sure he has a good reason.”

You slowly turned to face John with wide eyes and a hanging jaw. 

“Is this woman for real?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “She trusts him. They trust each other.”

“Neither of you has mentioned her before.”

“Because...wait. Are you, are you jealous?”

“Jealous? Of me?” Molly squeaked. “No, no. There’s nothing to be jealous of. He and I are, are friends. We’re just friends. Right, Sherlock?”

“What? Jealous. No. I just think it’s just weird that you have,” you wrinkled your nose, “ _ friends _ who help you clean up three bloody bodies with no questions asked.”

“He does,” John clarified. “I don’t ask Molly to dispose of bodies for me.”

“Though I would help you if you needed it, John.”

“Well,” he grinned. “Thank you.”

You swallowed and glared at an untainted spot on the floor. 

“You,” John tilted his head to you. “You have friends who perform surgery on you no questions asked. Well, friend.”

But you could only scowl in reply. With a shrug, John took off his coat and took over Molly’s work of cleaning the rug. She got started on the speckles of blood on his chair.

“So, Hooper. How often do you two clean up bodies together?” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Not often. You have nothing to worry about. It’s just in case of emergencies.”

“Who says, who says I’m worried?”

“Oh, um,” she softly smiled and shook her head. “Not that you’re worried about me spending time with him, with either of them. We hardly ever spend time together. No, not at all. That’s why you’ve never heard of me. Um, I just mean worried about bodies and him, well, getting rid of them.”

“I’m not concerned with who he kills.”

John popped back to his feet and outstretched the brush to you.

“Eve, rinse this for me?”

You glowered at him. But he stared right back. After a breath, you marched over and snatched the brush from his hand. You stomped to the sink, carefully avoiding the blood so you wouldn’t spread more tracks into the kitchen.

Of course, Molly would probably clean it right up with that perfect, sweet little smile of hers. No questions asked.

John picked up a rag and started wiping down the bookshelf next to Sherlock. His feet stood on either side of the gunman propped against it. 

Examining each book, he started making a pile of unsalvageable texts that needed to be disposed of. When he came across a copy of  _ Frankenstein _ , John immediately shoved it to the bottom before you could see it.

“Are you going to say anything?” he muttered to the detective.

Silence.

“She’s clearly jealous,” John continued.

Sherlock smirked. But otherwise didn’t say a word.

The four of you eradicated every drop of blood and piece of flesh, brain matter, and unwanted skull from the flat. Aside from the corpses, no one would know that three men died in 221B that day. 

Molly gathered the cleaning supplies. She rinsed off everything that would return to the morgue and set anything to be disposed of in a separate bag. From the duffle bag, she withdrew three rolled-up body bags and laid them across the floor. When her eyes landed on the bloodstain in the floorboards, your bloodstain, she paused.

“Did you have another, Sherlock? You could have called me.”

He followed her eye line and swallowed. “No.”

She pursed her lips and nodded. Molly continued to lay out the body bags so she could lead the men to their final resting place. She stood up and took a deep breath.

“Will anyone be missing them?” She raised her eyebrows.

“No,” you replied. “They have a protocol for this. Next in line takes over. The person who they believed killed them will have effectively gotten rid of the bodies.”

You frowned.

“Which I supposed isn’t entirely untrue.”

John helped Molly place the men into their bags. She zipped them up and smiled at Sherlock. But her eyes flickered to your disgruntled face and she bit her lip.

“Alright, Sherlock. Shall we take these to the morgue together?”

“Toge—”

But John elbowed you in the side.

“Not helping your case,” he muttered under his breath.

You scrunched your face and looked back at Sherlock. His eyes instantly redirected themselves from you to Molly. He smiled at her.

He fucking  _ smiled _ at her.

“I’d love to.”

Sherlock took a step forward and brushed the side of Molly’s cheek with his hand. She nervously laughed and glanced at you before looking back at him.

“Sher—”

“Thank you for your help, Molly.”

He leaned in to kiss her on the other cheek and nodded.

“It, it,” she tittered. “It was nothing. Nothing at all.”

She cleared her throat and took a step back. Avoiding all eye contact, eye contact with anyone for that matter, Molly lunged forward to grab the top end of the first body bag.

“Who, who’s going to help me car-carry this?”

“I’ve got it.” John leaned down to grab the other end. 

The two of them proceeded to carry the bodies to the hearse out front. When they retrieved the last one, you crossed your arms and shot daggers into the corpse with your eyes. 

“Coming with?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I think three dead bodies is enough to crash your date,” you grumbled. “Plus, someone needs to stay here to protect John.”

He smirked and threw on his coat before bounding down the stairs.

Thanks to impatient practice over the years, Sherlock and Molly successfully snuck the three bodies into the morgue. Each one received its own cavity in the fridge as Molly, leaning over an open table, forged paperwork to have them cremated. Sherlock paced around with his fingertips resting on his chin.

“So she, she’s the reason you haven’t been around. Is she your—”

“Client.”

“Oh,” Molly nodded. “You’re working a case for her. Is she nice?”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

Molly smiled and continued to scribble on the forms.

“What’s she like then?”

“She’s…” Sherlock stopped in his tracks and furrowed his brow.

“A shapeshifter. A manipulative creature who can turn into anyone or anything a person might want her to be. She can smell your desire, the longings of your heart, with a single whiff and instantly transform into the very thing you wish to fill that void. 

“The moment you think you have the upper hand, that you think you’re about to get what you want, it’s too late. You’re already caught in her web. She’s cut out your heart and swallowed it whole.”

Molly’s pen froze in her hand. She slowly raised her gaze to look at Sherlock who continued to stare into the distance.

“Is she, is she dangerous?”

“Deadly.”

“Will you tell her?”

“Tell her what?” He turned and narrowed his eyes at her.

“How you feel.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

Molly pursed her lips and nodded. She set down her pen and looked him in the eyes.

“A word of advice, Sherlock. Don’t wait. People like to know how you feel. And it, well, it hurts to not say anything for too long.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But Molly finished for him.

“I’ve got everything covered here. You can head home.”

He swallowed and knit his brows together. But Molly was already consumed by her falsified paperwork. 

She didn’t look back up until he was gone.

Back at the flat, you flopped on the couch. Face-up and outstretched across the furniture, you mindlessly twisted Sherlock’s scarf into various shapes and figures as you stared at the ceiling.

“Want to tell me what that was about?”

John stood over you and glanced down with a raised eyebrow.

“She gets rid of bodies like it’s just another Tuesday. That’s  _ weird _ , John.”

“She and Sherlock helped you fake your death like it’s just another Tuesday. You didn’t have a problem with it then.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Go ahead, lie to yourself. It’s what you’re good at.”

You bolted upright and swung your legs over the edge. You leaned over to rest your elbows on your knees.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” you spat.

John raised his hands in surrender. 

“You’re smart, Eve. Put the clues together.”

His eyes flickered from your face to the scarf in your hands. You glared at him before resuming your reclined position on the furniture. After wrapping the scarf around your neck, you crossed your arms with a huff.

“Let’s just wait until he gets back and we can start this stupid case. I’m just a client. I’m just  _ his  _ client.”

“Sure, whatever you say.”


	18. He's a Sadistic Psychopath, Do Your Research

With Sherlock and John sitting in their own chairs, John gestured to the empty folding one between them.

“You can sit,” he said.

You crossed your arms and leaned into one hip.

“I don’t have to.”

John sighed. “It’s just, it’s what they, clients do. They sit here and tell us about their problem and we...”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine, I’ll indulge you.”

You flipped the chair around and straddled the seat. Crossing your arms, you leaned over the back. Your eyes blazed with purpose.

Fingertips pressed to his lips, Sherlock studied you with a sideways glance. After a kiss of eye contact, you instantly retracted your gaze from him. You raised your eyebrows at John.

“May I begin?”

“Please.”

“The man we are after is named Clint Riley. He is the leader of one of the most prolific human trafficking rings in the United States. Riley always found it safer and more profitable to focus on a niche market. So they specialize in auctioning off young, beautiful and athletic women to the highest bidder.”

Sherlock resumed looking into the distance as he absorbed your words, carefully filing them away in their necessary spaces. Your eyes lingered on him for a moment. But you took a deep breath and continued.

“Once these women are in the hands of the buyer, they can do anything to them. The organization even offers body recovery, clean up services, doctors, torture equipment, you name it as a special adds on. They have perfected the commercialization of torture and abuse for sadists.”

“He’s the other agent. Your partner.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

You sucked in a breath.

“Riley went undercover a few years before I did. The FBI handed over the case when the organization started contact with Ashworth's. But when Clint's behavior changed and his handler noticed a few inconsistencies, they sent me in. I was only supposed to go in, pull him out, and be done with this.”

“And you stayed because….” John prompted.

“There was another person above him—someone in charge of this organization at a global level. The deeper he got into the operation, the closer he was to finding out who he was. He asked me to work alongside him so we could find the son of a bitch and take him down.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded. “When?”

You grit your teeth and stared at the freshly cleaned rug. “When he left me for dead.”

“Wait,” John glanced between you. “When? When what?”

You swallowed and looked him in the eyes. 

“He sent me on a wild goose chase after the invisible man. It got out that someone was an agent and I took the fall. He beat me within an inch of my life as a display of power. All while spinning the same story to the CIA and making me the double agent. That’s _when_ I realized it was all a lie. And that’s why I never had to fake my death.”

You glanced down and gently shook your head.

“Someone else did it for me.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked and he readjusted in his seat. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and periodically tapped his fingers together.

“Why here? Why now?” John asked.

“Because she could infiltrate their competition. She planned to use everything they taught her and even the legacy they gave her to work her way up the chain of command. Then let the two organizations destroy each other instead of their victims. Yes?”

You nodded. 

“And the deal is going down soon. Riley promised Ashworth a set of trade secrets that made him so prolific and profitable in the United States. Of course, he was only using that as a cover to learn their vulnerabilities and eventually take over their operation. He’s...ambitious.

“Ashworth’s henchman said they’d be here in two weeks. Which means they’ll be here in maybe ten days? Riley always shows up early as a surprise. Gets everyone off balance and scrambling.”

John pursed his lips and shook his head. He clenched his fists and sucked in a breath. 

“You’re,” he blinked firmly and stared at you. “You’re telling me your plan after getting almost killed by this psychopath was to become best friends with another man just like him and take down two human trafficking rings on foreign soil by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Are you mad?”

“John, if it’s not clear to you by now, I have no regard for my personal safety. I have to kill the hydra or die trying. The problem is that now I have no cover, no contacts, and I can’t even use my previous identity to my advantage since I killed plenty of their men with it. I….”

You threw your hands in the air and slapped them back on your knees. You winced at the pain against your wounded palm. Sucking in a breath, you rubbed your forehead before looking back at John.

“I am out of moves, John. I've been sitting for months now and have no clue what to do. He’s won the game. He always wins.”

“You’re wrong. You have more moves left on the board,” Sherlock spoke lowly.

“Like what, Holmes? Please, enlighten me with your genius.”

“You have to see it yourself.”

“Sherlock,” John chimed in. “Maybe this isn’t the best time for you to, you know. Can you just tell us?”

“She’s clever enough. Just too emotionally involved.”

Mouth slightly agape, you stared at him. But after a few breaths, you snapped your jaw shut and grit your teeth. Eyes afire, you glowered at him and growled.

“I’m,” you swallowed, “too emotionally involved?”

He pressed his lips together and nodded. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Yes, actually it is, you sociopathic robot. Of course, I am emotionally involved. I spent years watching these women be ripped from their lives and then torn to shreds. Sometimes literally. 

“You know what they do right after they sell you? Before you leave their warehouse? They tattoo a barcode on you. Whenever the buyer wants it. For no purpose other than to remind you that you’re a product and not a person.

“So yes, Holmes. I am terribly emotionally involved. You have no idea what that feels like, do you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you. You threw your head back and drew in a sharp inhale.

“My emotionality is the greatest weapon I have against a sadistic psychopath because it forged my iron-clad conviction. To him, it’s just a game—a great power struggle. But I’m not playing to win. I’m playing so that no one else has to play anymore. Now, will you get over yourself and tell me what master plays I am missing because of my overwhelmed feminine senses?”

He abruptly stood up and strutted to the door. Sherlock swung it open and gestured for you to walk out, inspiring John to raise a curious eyebrow.

“Are you kicking me out because I offended you and your diva sensibilities?” you mocked.

Sherlock sucked in a breath and recalibrated his facial expression. 

“Proving a point. Let’s go.”

You furrowed your brow and glanced at John. But he pursed his lips and shrugged.

“Trust him, just this once,” he said. “See what happens.”

You narrowed your eyes at John. But after a few thumping beats of your heart, you nodded and sprang to your feet. 

You and John followed Sherlock out the door. He led you to an empty alley and threw his coat at John. Given that it landed right on his face, he had no choice but to catch it in his available arms.

“Sherlock! What are you doing?” 

He fumbled to place the iconic clothing in the crook of his arm. Sherlock gestured to his neck and then back to you. You nodded and removed his scarf and handed it to John. 

Getting in a fighting stance, Sherlock raised his fists.

“Punch me,” he said.

“Um, don’t you remember how that went last time?”

He blinked firmly and shook his head. 

“This isn’t to cause harm. This is for you to redirect your anger so you can think clearly.”

You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Normally, I’d eagerly take up an opportunity to assault you. But, seriously, why can’t you just tell me what you have in mind?”

“Like I said,” he tilted his head to the side, “It won’t matter unless you see it for yourself.”

You took a deep breath and readied yourself. With a smirk, you lunged forward to smack him in the jaw. But Sherlock bounced back to evade your blow.

“You said yourself that he’s a sadistic psychopath,” he reported.

“Yes,” you growled as you spun around.

“And what does he want most?”

You aimed for his throat but he blocked you with his forearm and guided you arm back to your side. Sherlock kneed you in the stomach. You flexed your abdominal muscles to soften the blow as you sprang backward. 

“To inflict as much pain on others,” you replied.

“You’re too focused on how cruel he is.”

He took a step forward and rolled out his neck. Heart rate accelerated, he outstretched his hands and curled his fingers inward to encourage you to attack again.

“For fuck’s sake, Holmes. What is your objective here?”

“You need to stop thinking like yourself and start thinking like him.”

“Or like you?”

You snarled and leaped forward. Sherlock raised his arm to block your punch. But you ducked underneath him. In one swift motion, you spun around and slammed your heel in the back of his knee. 

With a grunt, his leg collapsed into the pavement. You swear you heard John whisper “good shot”. But when you looked up, he was dutifully holding Sherlock’s coat and scarf while whistling and bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Glaring at him, Sherlock wrinkled his nose and rose back to his feet to face you, his nose a breath away from your face.

“He’s a sadist. But his business is what he does with it. Again, what does he want?”

“Power and control.”

“And how does he get that? Think like a businessman. Not a psychopath.” 

He tapped his temple and stepped backward. The two of you walked circles around each other. You narrowed your eyes and took deep breaths to steady yourself.

“Money. But more than money, connections. His network.”

“And without it?”

“His business falls apart.”

You sprang forward. But Sherlock grabbed your fist in his palm. He twisted your arm outward. With a cry, you spun underneath your arm and slammed your back to his chest. His hand, still entangled with yours, followed through to wrap around you. 

He leaned in to whisper into your ear. 

“You only have to pull on one thread if the empire is built on lies.”

“Loyalty and discretion are what built his brand. I can’t infiltrate. I’ve tried to hack his bookkeeping. His operation is impenetrable.”

You kicked up your heel to pierce his shin. With gritted teeth, he hissed and leaped backward. He shook out his hands and readjusted his footing. Lowering his chin, he glowered at you.

“Stop thinking like a spy,” he spat. “Think like a businessman. What would destroy his network? The very channel through which all of his sadistic tendencies give him power and profits.”

You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head to the side. 

“A campaign, a targeted campaign.”

He nodded before throwing his fist forward. You caught hold of his wrist and spun around. Pulling down, you were just about to slam his elbow against your shoulder. But upon seeing the ghastly pale of John’s face, you flung Sherlock from your grasp and turned around to raise your hands in surrender.

“If he had a competitor to slander his name,” you panted. “Then everything would fall apart. His clients would disappear, business associates, employees, everyone who makes him what he is would abandon him.”

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his wrist and swallowed. “Exactly.”

“But I can’t, I can’t do that. I’ve exhausted every option. Again, no more moves.”

“Then why are you here?”

Glaring at him, you charged forward. But he quickly subdued you by pulling your wrists behind your back and drawing your back against him. You squirmed in his grip. But when his lips grazed your earlobe, you paused.

“You are terrified of me because how much I remind you of him,” he breathed.

With a growl, you stamped on his foot and elbowed him in the ribs to free yourself. He raised his hands in the air with heavy breath weighing on his heart.

“What if you got to use that to your advantage?” 

Placing your hands on your waist, you threw your head back to catch your breath. Then lowered it again to meet his gaze. 

“Sherlock,” you panted. “I don’t, I don’t know. I don’t know if you can do it.”

“I am asking you, just this once, to trust someone,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “And to let that person be me.”

“Why? You don’t care. You don’t care about the lives lost and the women tortured.” 

You tossed your hand to the side and shook your head.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“Then why does it matter?”

He took a step forward. You clenched your fists, but he held his palms up to signal that he was done fighting you. When you relaxed your muscles, Sherlock cautiously raised his hands and hovered them over your shoulders. 

Your eyes followed his movements. But when he paused, you looked back at him and nodded. He gingerly placed his hands on you and traced your arms down your fingertips. Looking you in the eyes, he took a deep breath and swallowed.

“Because _you_ care.”

You could feel your chest rise and fall with each breath. Removing your hands from his and placing them in your back pockets, you glanced downward.

“You’re right.”

You shook your head and looked back up.

“I never would have even considered it if you just told me that.”

You rubbed your hand on the back of your neck before dashing back to the flat. When you were around the corner and out of sight, Sherlock limped over to John. 

“She really got you,” John snickered.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him and threw on his coat. He upturned his collar and marched forward, albeit with a periodic hobble of his knee.

“Will it work?” John asked.

“Contrary to what your school teachers told you, there are such things as stupid questions, John. Of course I can take down a sadistic psychopath. He’s just a different type of serial killer.”

“No, arsehole. Will she let you?”

“It’s not a matter of ‘let’, it’s _if_ she’ll help me. And the answer is yes. Her window of opportunity is closing and she knows it.”

John pursed his lips and nodded. Outside the front door of 221B Baker Street, he turned to face Sherlock.

“Are we going to talk about it?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Talk about what?”

“Now who’s asking stupid questions.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and glared at him.

“The kiss. Molly,” John goaded. “You knew she was jealous and you exploited it. Quite shamelessly if I do say so myself.”

“Just an experiment,” Sherlock grumbled.

Sherlock’s scarf still in hand, John put his hands on his hips. Tapping his foot, he looked at the ground and shook his head before staring down Sherlock with furious eyes.

“Is it really? Are people that disposable to you? And I’m not just talking about her. But Molly too. Is it really just some grand experiment to see how you can get her to trust you? See if you can beat the guy she can’t? 

“Because if it is, if you are just playing a game, I have a right to know. I have a right to know for when you inevitably blow this up and she storms out of both of our lives.”

He tilted his head and waited for Sherlock to speak. But he only stared back blankly with a clenched jaw. John swallowed and pressed his lips together.

“Fine. You don’t have to tell me. But you better know that she’s my friend too. Don’t make us both pay for your stupidity.”

John shoved Sherlock’s scarf into his hands and trotted up the stairs. 

Leaving the detective to wonder who the liar of 221B _really_ was.


	19. It Started with a Kidney

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to the smell of gunpowder being washed away by fresh rain. Without opening his eyes, he furrowed his brow and listened to the sound of your gentle breathing from the other side of the bed.

After a few luxurious inhales of his own, he slowly opened his eyes to take in the sight of you, fully dressed and asleep on top of the covers. His gaze flickered to the kidney that you clutched in a plastic bag. The very much  _ thawed out _ kidney.

He drew in a deep breath. Your eyes flew open and your body jerked back in surprise. When your heart returned from its momentary visit to your throat, you held up the plastic bag.

“I brought you the other to ice your knee.”

You squinted at the sopping mess and grimaced.

“Although I don’t think this one is good anymore.”

He reached over to snatch the bag from your hand. 

“My body parts are not for the taking,” he rumbled, voice deep from the softness of sleep.

You snickered. “Oh, I’m sure of it.”

He tossed the kidney on his nightstand and flopped back in bed. After dragging his hands over his face, he stared at the ceiling.

“At least I didn’t break your elbow,” you murmured.

“That was the point.” 

“For me to hurt you?”

“No, for you to redirect your excessive emotion.”

“Right, because I’m riddled with feelings.” You smirked.

“What. Do. You. Want?” 

His voice was pointed. Head propped under your hand, you traced indistinguishable shapes along the covers with the other. You bit your lip and glanced down. When he turned his head to face you, you sighed. But continued to avoid eye contact.

“Sherlock,” you swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for, well, everything. Will you still help me? Even if you don’t care.”

You raised your eyes to meet his.

“Will you help me...as a friend?”

The muscles in his face relaxed as his gaze softened. You stared at each other for an immeasurable moment of time. Heart pounding against the inside of your chest, you could see his chest rise and fall with each breath from the corner of your eye.

You bit your lip and held your breath. Propping yourself up higher, you outstretched your arm and leaned over him. His hand grazed your waist to steady you, the pad of his thumb kissing the outline of your scar as your shirt raised.

You tensed and sucked in a breath.

“Don’t get greedy on me, Holmes.”

With the utmost caution, you lowered your face over his. His skin prickled as your breath disturbed the air over his lips. You gently pressed your lips to his and drank in a kiss. He fisted the fabric of your shirt to pull you closer as your fingers traced the side of his face.

_ Knock knock. _

“Sherlock, have you seen Eve? I can’t find her and I’m getting worried.”

You separated your lips from his and took a few steadying breaths.

“Friends?” you whispered.

“Friends.”

You nodded and sprang from the bed with the kidney in hand. Sherlock furrowed his brow, trying to figure out when you managed to grab it from his nightstand. But for some unknown reason, his memory failed him.

John raised his hand to knock again. But his eyes widened when you swung the door open.

“Eve? You’re…”

“Making a peace offering.” 

Expressionless, you raised the bag. John cocked an eyebrow.

“I have to replace this one though. I think I ruined it.”

“We had two kidneys? I thought there was just the one.”

“I did.  _ I _ had two kidneys. They’re mine!” Sherlock bellowed from his bed.

You shrugged and strode into the kitchen, tossing the kidney into the sink.

“Coffee, John?” you called out.

“Er, yeah. Sure.”

John titled his head at Sherlock. But he covered his eyes with one hand and shooed John to close the door with the other. John pressed his lips together and shrugged before leaving Sherlock to his solitude. 

When the coffee was ready, you poured two mugs and passed one to John. He narrowed his eyes at you.

“So you two are…?”

You took a sip to sample your concoction.

“Um, friends?” you tested the words on your lips.

“Friends.” John nodded as he prepared his own morning caffeine. “It’s a start.”

He took a sip and stared you down over the brim of the mug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You choked on a few offending droplets that dared to go down the wrong pipe.

“Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes and set down your mug.

“Alright, John. I’m officially in your world now. So how does this taking down psychopaths go?”

“Well—”

The door to Sherlock’s room burst open and he, now fully dressed, strutted into the sitting room. He started placing index cards in a row on the wall above the couch. Briefly, his eyes flickered to his scarf watching him from the armrest.

You strode over to examine his work.

Each card had a category written on it from “Client” to “Contractor.”

You crossed your arms and quirked an eyebrow.

“You know you’ll have to destroy these every night,” you said.

He spun around and tilted his head. You shrugged and he continued to place the cards along the wall.

“I can’t write this information and just leave it around,” you explained. “It’s in my programming.”

When he was finished, he jumped down from the couch and handed you a blank deck of cards. 

“That’s fine. I can store it.”

“Where?”

He tapped the side of his temple. You raised your eyebrows.

“Ah, the legendary mind palace.”

You smirked. He wrapped his hands around your arms and nodded.

“This is just for knowledge transfer,” Sherlock breathed. He nodded to John. “And him.”

John slammed his mug on the table.

“Just because I’m not a part of whatever weird telepathic connection you two have doesn’t mean you have to treat me like an idiot.” He took a sip and grumbled. “I can keep up.”

Sherlock marched to the kitchen. He spun around and pointed a finger at you.

“Write down every contact you can remember. Who they are, what they did, and their vulnerabilities.”

“Vulnerabilities?”

“Don’t play John. You can smell them on a person a mile away.”

“It’s like, it’s like I’m not even here.” John shook his head.

You smirked and plopped on the couch to get to work. You patted the seat next to you.

“C’mon, John. I could use your company.”

He sighed and obliged. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at Sherlock.

“And just what are you doing with that big brilliant brain of yours?”

His words dripped sarcasm. 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

John glared at him. Sherlock yanked the plastic bag from the sink.

“Properly disposing of this, of course.”

Then he bound out of the flat.

You continued to scribble down names, locations, and notes, placing them in their respective columns on the wall. When you put a specific card under the “Contractors” column, John raised an eyebrow. 

“Is that one right?” He pointed at it.

You turned to him and frowned. “I know. I just know the name. He only mentioned her a few times.”

He crossed his arms and squinted at the comparatively barren card. 

You finished placing a card in the “Client” column when Sherlock burst back into the flat. He walked right behind you to survey your work. You crossed your arms and turned your head to glance at him.

“What do you think?” you murmured into his neck.

Sherlock's eyes flickered across the cards. Only a few were missing personal details or occupations. One hand on his hip, he diligently filed away your work in his hard drive and traced circles on your waist with his thumb.

Examining the two of you, John furrowed his brow. But otherwise remained silent as he redirected his attention to your notes.

“Oh!” You stepped forward and removed one of the blank cards. You turned to pick up your marker from the coffee table and Sherlock took a step back to grant you access. You added additional occupation details and put the card back in place. John’s eyes widened.

“What’s next, detective?”

“Him. What are his vulnerabilities?”

You spun around so you could face him again. “Fear.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Sadists thrive on—”

“Not his own fear.” You glanced between him and John. “Yes, as a sadist, he feeds on the fear of others. I was determined to not indulge him. Instead, I exposed my ‘terror’ to him only when it served  _ me _ . He was addicted. He thought he was controlling my experience when really I was the one in charge of the narrative.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “And for his business?”

“Right.” You took a deep breath. “He built everything on the promise of safety. Ironic, given his clientele. But he created a safe haven for sadists to live out their most twisted fantasies.”

“We can use his own lie against him,” Sherlock murmured, fingertips resting on his chin.

“How?”

He cocked an eyebrow. You sighed and rolled your eyes. 

“I know his CIA connections. Everyone will scatter when they learn he’s a government agent. But how are you planning to infiltrate with the truth? He’s legendary. Not to mention his clients are desperate for his security to be as real as he claims because they can’t get this anywhere else.” 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and stared at you.

“Some consultant you are,” you grumbled. 

With a smirk, you hooked your fingers into his belt loops and pulled him closer. His eyes went wide as his breath caught in his throat. John cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrows.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed into his ear.

“C’mon, Holmes. Don’t make me do all the work.”

Sherlock pulled back and blinked firmly. He recomposed his expression and swallowed.

“We just have to make a spectacle of one person. Show the risk isn’t worth the reward. But we can’t just let his entire operation fall apart. Only another will appear. Which is why we have to be the competition. When we have control of his client list and contacts, we’ll be able to redirect them exactly where we want them to go.”

You smirked. “We, or should I say you, control the narrative.”

“Precisely.”

“You have to plant seeds of doubt before making a move.”

“Of course.”

“You can’t be too obvious or absurd. You have to be subtle, sensitive.” You leaned in closer. “Yet, apply enough pressure so that they know you’re there.”

“Too just the right people,” he breathed. “Who have enough rapport within the community.”

“It’ll spread like wildfire.” Your eyes lit up. 

“Er, guys,” John cleared his throat.

“Not now, John,” you whispered. “The question remains, Holmes. Where do we begin?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But before the words escaped his lips, your view of the beautiful detective was blocked by an index card. You glowered at John with a sideways glance.

“I know her,” he pressed.

You snatched the card from his hand. Beneath the name was your last minute addition.

_ Doctor _

“Work?”

“Medical school. We, er, we dated.”

Your pupils blew wide open. “Do we have a type, John? Sadist psychopaths?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“No,” John protested. “I can’t, I can’t imagine her being involved in something like this.”

“What’s her specialty?” you asked.

“She’s a brilliant cardiologist.”

Your stomach fell through the floorboards. 

“What? What’s wrong?” John asked, eyes brimming with concern.

“There are guys who like to,” you gulped. “Bring them back to have another round.”

John shook his head. “No, there’s no way that it could be her.”

“John, how many women out there are named Claire MacQuoid? Doctor Claire MacQuoid. I’m sorry, but it has to be her. He does have  _ other ways _ of coercing people. And if she’s as brilliant as you claim, maybe she was particularly desirable to him.”

John pressed his palm to his forehead. “I, I don’t know…”

“The doctors are highly respected in his operation because of the rarity of their skillset  _ and _ skewed moral compass. Or, at the very least, the work it takes to bend their will. You have to reach out to her.”

You placed the back of your hand to Sherlock’s chest. “Tell him.”

But Sherlock remained expressionless as he watched John’s inner turmoil. After a breath, John returned his gaze to you.

“Let’s do it. I hope I can get her out of this.”

“If she—”

“She does. She does want me to get her out.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. “Of course.”

“What do I do?” he asked.

Sherlock pulled out the chair at the table and gestured for John to sit in front of his computer.

“Write.”

With a nod, John took a seat and pulled up his email. 

“Let’s hope she uses the same address,” he muttered.

“She will,” you and Sherlock replied in unison.

“Or at least have access to it,” you added.

John started typing away as you and Sherlock bombarded him with suggestions.

“Keep it casual,” you recommended.

“Don’t talk all about yourself.”

“Ask her to meet in person. But without being overbearing.”

“Don’t mention me.”

“Do something where you can keep the conversation going. Coffee, the pub, whatever you guys do for first dates.”

“GUYS!” John threw his hands in the air. “I’ve got this.”

You crossed your arms and exchanged a glance with Sherlock. With a nod, you agreed to a vow of silence as John finished the email.

“There.” He moved out of the way. “Do I get your blessing?”

You and Sherlock leaned in to review John’s work. You bit your lip and nodded before looking at Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes and hit send.

“Now what?” John asked.

“We give it some time to see if she’ll agree to meet. Until then, I teach you how to interrogate through conversation.”

You smirked.

“Ready to become a spy, Doctor Watson?”


	20. You're a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes

You sighed and leaned over to rest your forearms on the table. Concern written across your face, you knit your brows together and frowned at John.

“I’m not saying this to torment you. I don’t enjoy your suffering.”

Hands clasped together in his lap, he shook his head and glanced down.

“I said it before. He has to be threatening her.”

“You have to be prepared. She just happens to be in town and available tonight? There’s something off about this.”

You took a deep breath.

“John, I just don’t want you to be blindsided.”

“She was never a violent person. If anything, she was the victim of petty grudges.”

Closing your eyes, you shook your head.

“Psychopathology manifests differently in women than in men. Women usually aren’t as physically violent. But they express relational aggression. Gossip, lies, gaslighting.”

“She only talked about the other students who were jealous of her talent and tried to attack her for it.”

“Women psychopaths aren’t as overt in their narcissism as men. They use deception and guilt to manipulate. She probably always made herself out to be the victim and doused you in flattery to feed your ego so you'd feel good protecting her.”

“I’m so dreadful that it’s impossible to think my girlfriend could compliment me for the sake of a compliment? She has to be a psychopath to see any good in me?”

“You know that’s not what—”

“Save it.”

He held up his hand and your jaw snapped shut. You pursed your lips and glanced downward as John pressed his palm to his forehead. Dragging his hand down his face, he finally made eye contact again and sighed.

“I know you’re just trying to help. I’m sorry,” he apologized.

You softly shook your head. 

“No, John. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make assumptions. I’ve been immersed in this world for so long, I forget that there are good people in the world. Good people like you.”

You forced a sorrowful smile and he grimaced.

“Do you feel ready?” you asked.

“I’m a soldier. I’m always ready.” 

You chuckled in approval. He repeated a summary of your lesson from the day.

“First objective is to know if she’s a willing participant. Lead with statements over too many questions. Provide my own details so she feels comfortable exchanging her own. And if she is what you’re saying, show her I’m one of them.”

“I’ve seen you channel your emotion into your cover before. You can do this. And, for your sake, I hope you don’t have to do it again.”

“Me too.”

“She chose a nicer place than I was expecting. I’ll have to get something else to wear. Do you want to come with? Get some fresh air?”

“That sounds great.” 

You stood up from your chair and plucked Sherlock’s scarf from the couch armrest. Wrapping it around your neck and tossing your hair out from underneath, you turned to face Sherlock. He was sitting in his chair—deep in thought.

“Alright, Holmes. John has a date tonight. I need to wear a little less leather and denim if we’re going to cover him.”

Silence.

“Are you coming with us?”

Silence.

You cocked an eyebrow at John. But he just shrugged.

“John has a date tonight and it’s _me_. We plan to shag all night long.”

Silence.

“That’s what you guys say, right?” you whispered to John. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head, shielding his crimson cheeks from view.

“Whatever,” you grumbled.

You threw on your sunglasses and leather jacket as John grabbed his coat. You held the door open for him to escort the two of you out of the flat. Once on Baker Street, John hailed a taxi and you took off together.

By the time that you were at the cash desk—John insisted that you pay with your stolen money—Sherlock blinked rapidly to return to the outside world.

“Don’t you touch her, John!” he growled. 

But he furrowed his brow as he glanced around the flat to see that no one was there. Setting his elbows on his knees and throwing his hands into his hair, he let out an exasperated exhale.

He’d never had so many friends before.

It was utterly confusing.

You and John arrived back at the flat shortly after. 

As John adjusted his tie in the mirror, Sherlock walked into his room and extended his arm with a pen and pad of paper in hand.

John gave him a curious look to wait for the detective’s explanation.

“I need you to write down everything you do wrong on your dates.”

John rolled his eyes and resumed straightening his tie.

“Based on the number of dates you’ve been on since I’ve met you, your skill hasn’t increased. I need to know what you’re doing wrong.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced down.

“For the cover.”

John spun around and glowered at him.

“If you want a good cover, you have a spy to talk to. Now stop harassing me.”

John stepped forward to walk past Sherlock. But he grabbed his elbow to stop him.

“Please.”

John sucked in a breath. But after evaluating the pleading look in Sherlock’s eyes, he let out a sigh and put his hands on his hips.

“You know, she, unlike most people, can tolerate you being you very well. Even enjoys it I would go so far to say. So, Sherlock. I never thought I’d be giving you dating advice. And I certainly never thought it would be this. But just, be yourself. Okay?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. But after deciphering that John’s advice was genuine, he gave him a curt nod. He shoved the pen and notepad into John’s hands and walked out of the room.

At the restaurant, you sipped a glass of water and picked at your food. Sherlock carefully observed John and Claire from behind your back. You could hear her laughing.

From across the table, Sherlock furrowed his brow.

“He just told her a joke. She wasn’t impressed. But she’s laughing anyway to flatter him.”

“I hate that I can’t see this.”

“You know you shouldn’t be facing them.”

“I’m wearing these bulky glasses and I did my makeup to alter the appearance of my bone structure,” you gestured to your face. “Although no contouring in the world could compete with your painfully attractive cheekbones.”

He smirked.

“He’s telling her a story. About the time he punched me judging by the hand gestures.”

Your jaw dropped. “Now _that_ I have to see.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. You took another bite of food and smiled.

“You picked well for me. You _have_ learned my taste.”

“Of course.”

“Even if you don’t eat that, you’re going to have to make it look like you did.”

You gestured to his lonely plate.

“And you’re going to need to stop staring at them or people will think I’m the most abhorrently dull date. You could at least pretend that I look nice. It’s kinda what this whole _undercover_ thing is about. Playing a role.”

His eyes flickered back to you. You raised your eyebrows and pointed to his plate with your fork. Begrudgingly, he speared a forkful then rested the handle back on the side. He glanced back at John.

You rolled your eyes and relieved his fork of its bite of food. Then placed it back on his side of the table. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you.

“You know that she’s—” he started.

“Yes,” you finished. “He really wants to believe otherwise. I just hope that his need to prove me wrong doesn’t impede him from getting the truth.”

You took a sip of water and furrowed your brow. Sherlock continued to observe John.

“He does have a type. Look at us,” you said, raising your glass. Without removing his eyes from John—who was now doing a terrible impression of one of their professors—Sherlock replied.

“Deception, feigning weakness, compulsive lying, using guilt to manipulate others, superficial charm, and sexual aggression. Yes, you exhibit almost all of the behaviors of a female psychopath.”

You stared at him blankly then blinked a few times. 

“Wow, you really know how to flatter a woman. I thought you were talking about yourself.”

His eyes flickered back to you. 

“Prone to violence,” he added before looking back at John.

You rolled your eyes and set down your glass.

“You’re one to talk, you utter sociopath.”

“High functioning.”

After another bite, you crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat.

“Why must you torment me, Holmes?”

He smirked. You chuckled and mirrored his satisfaction across your own lips.

“So how long will it take for—” 

“Dessert. Second bite,” he predicted.

“I think he’s smarter than that.”

He raised an eyebrow at you. You snickered.

“If I win, you have to be nothing but nice to John for a day.”

“And when I win—”

You set a pack of cigarettes on the table. Sherlock tilted his head as his eyes widened.

“Like you said, I can smell it a mile away. I’m surprised you hadn’t sniffed these out yourself yet. Got them as soon as I could walk.”

He furrowed his brow. “Where?”

“Inside the convection fan in the oven.” You sighed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Do I look like a baker to you? Because I know you aren’t. And John steamed all of my food. _All of it_. They’re perfectly unheated.”

“Besides,” you took another sip of water. “I needed some other leverage in case my psychopathic charm didn’t work on you. And I _really_ wanted to see you tear apart the oven for a smoke.”

You smirked. “So, do you accept my terms?”

He narrowed his eyes and gave you a nod.

“The game is on,” he goaded.

Your eyes lit up. “Ah yes, now you’re looking at me like I’m at least slightly intriguing.”

On the other side of the restaurant, John chuckled as he finished the last few bites of his entree.

“I’m so happy you reached out, John. I just happened to be in town for work and the timing was perfect,” Claire said.

“For a conference? You always wanted to speak at one of those.”

She shook her head after finishing a sip of her cocktail. 

“You should know there aren’t any conferences this week. Certainly none that interest me.”

Upon John’s frown, she put her hand over her mouth.

“Oh right, you’re still readjusting. My apologies.”

“No, it’s fine. That’s actually something I was hoping to ask you about. I’m still looking for work. Do you know of anyone with open positions?”

“What kind of work are you looking for? Something easy maybe? Like a clinic?” She cocked an eyebrow.

“Er, something interesting actually. Between war and working alongside Sherlock Holmes, I need something of a _different_ variety. Can’t dull my senses.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “Just how different, John?”

Upon the inflection of her voice, his stomach twisted in knots. Under the table, John balled one of his hands into a fist.

“Claire, there was always something different about you,” he spoke cautiously.

She tilted her head to the side. Her eyes lit up with curiosity.

“And I think you know what I mean when I say that I am different also,” John continued, speaking his words as if they tread on ice. “I like trouble.”

Consumed by his gaze, Claire set down her glass and leaned over the table. 

“Do you know where I can get into some really good trouble?” John asked.

The corner of her lip upturned in a sneer.

“Why John, I didn’t know that you knew.”

“Of course, why else was I attracted to you.”

“It was exhausting pretending all the time. This is quite the breath of fresh air. But why now?”

“Because like you said, pretending to be normal is exhausting.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back. John clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward.

“Why else would I spend all my time with an insufferably childish sociopath? It’s the easiest way to hide in plain sight. Everyone is so concerned with his frenzy of solving murders. They don’t realize that I’m the one staging the show.”

The sound of Claire’s low chuckles pierced through his heart.

“You do like trouble, John.”

“I’m getting bored of him. I need something different. Do you know of anyone who could use my particular combination of skills?”

“I might, I just might.”

John grit his teeth and swallowed. “Now, Claire. Don’t be a tease. I-I need this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, John. Let me check with some contacts and I’ll get back to you.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath.

“He knows.”

Your eyes went wide watching Sherlock's face go expressionless as he observed John.

“Is he, is he—”

“No. You don’t have to be worried.”

Pursing your lips, you set down your fork.

“He will really need you to be nice to him,” you murmured.

“Lucky for him, you aren’t also a psychopath. Your overbearing emotion is doing him some good.”

“Hopefully you do a better job complimenting him than you do for me.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

Gritting your teeth, you drew in a steadying breath. Sherlock tilted his head to meet your piercing gaze.

“You are such an ass sometimes,” you hissed as you threw your napkin on the table. You pushed out your chair and stood up.

“I’m going to clean up a bit. Enjoy your view of your boyfriend. I trust you can get him out if things get dicey?”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered from you to John and he gave you a nod. You stomped off to the toilet, not noticing Sherlock’s pained glance at the sight of you walking away.

You were in the middle of drying your hands, grumbling about “friendship this” and “sociopathic that”, when you heard the sounds of glass breaking and shouting. Ready to withdraw your weapon at any moment, you dashed to the dining room but abruptly stopped at the sight before you.

Sherlock was on the floor with John’s hands wrapped around his throat. John’s face was scrunched and getting redder by the second. You released your fingertips from your concealed firearm and took a few steps closer as they lured in a crowd.

“Spying on me are you!” John bellowed. “Can’t get enough of me at home so you just have to follow me around! Well, I’ve got news for you, detective. Not everything is about YOU! I have part of my life that I don’t want you involved in!”

You crossed your arms and leaned into one hip. Sherlock started slapping John’s forearms. He tilted his head back to see you, upsidedown and raising your eyebrows at him. One eye twitching, he silently asked for your intervention. But you waited until his eyes were begging for your assistance before stepping in.

You scurried next to the two of them and leaned over. Your hair fell from your shoulders and shielded most of your face from Claire’s amused view.

“Oh my gosh, Sherlock! What is this man doing to you!”

John, bewildered by your ability to transpose your voice nearly an octave higher, cocked an eyebrow and leaped off of Sherlock.

He slowly rose to his feet and started brushing himself off. But you interrupted his process by latching yourself to his body. You buried your face into him and he wrapped his arms around you, both hearts skipping a beat at the feeling of his fingers grazing your bare shoulders.

“I was on a date,” Sherlock growled at John.

“You? A date?” John scoffed. “Another one of your brainless fans? I’m amazed she could keep your interest for an entire meal.”

You whimpered and held onto him even tighter. 

“Sherlock, let’s just leave,” you whispered.

“Yes, Sherlock. I think that’s a bloody brilliant idea,” John snipped. “Let’s all leave. I’m going back to the flat and I better not see you there.”

The owner of the restaurant stormed out and John raised his hands in the air.

“We were just on our way out,” he barked.

He tossed a wad of cash onto the broken glass and turned to Claire.

“What did I tell you? I need more challenging trouble than this idiot,” he murmured in her ear.

She smirked. “I’ll be in touch, John. It was great to see you again.”

Claire leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Like a ghost, she strode out of the restaurant. The three of you traipsed out right after her.

In the taxi, you sat between Sherlock and John and crossed your arms.

“Okay, what the hell happened? Were you just trying to blow his cover, _asshole?_ He was doing just fine.”

Sherlock stared out the window.

“Well?!” you demanded.

Gritting his teeth, John balled his hands in fists on top of his knees.

“I was doing just fine. He came over just to cause a scene because he’s a drama queen!”

“What the fuck is your problem?” You smacked Sherlock’s shoulder. “We’re working this case together. You told me to trust you. And now you’re running around like an absolute moron!”

Sherlock turned to you and snarled.

“He was getting too emotional. She was going to catch on. It was only a matter of time. And he needed a way to get out of the conversation without using that emotion inappropriately for his cover.”

“You think ANY SIGN of emotionality is ‘TOO EMOTIONAL’ because you don’t have any!” you shrieked at him.

“Will you two just FUCK already!” John bellowed.

You whipped your head around to glare at him. 

“The tension between you is driving me MAD! It’s utterly suffocating. No, you’re not just friends. Or whatever new, equally stupid lie you’re telling yourselves. Of course, you two are snogging. And NO, it doesn’t take a genius detective to figure that out.”

You opened your mouth to speak but John shoved a shaking finger in front of your face.

“I have news for you since you idiots are new to this concept of friendship. Friends don’t kiss each other!”

Nostrils flaring, you wrinkled your nose and latched your palms to John’s face. You yanked his lips to yours in a full lips-to-lips and teeth-to-teeth need-to-prove-him-wrong overcompensating kiss. Sherlock groaned and turned away, scowling in disgust.

“I kiss ALL my friends, JOHN!”

You brought his lips to yours again.

“Because I’m a sexually aggressive psychopath!”

Another.

You shot daggers with your eyes at the cabbie in the rearview mirror. Hands still wrapped around John’s face, you shrieked at the driver.

“Who’s also prone to violence!”

He instantly returned his eyes to the road. You kissed John again before freeing his cheeks from your grasp.

“What the bloody hell was that about?!”

“Proving a point!”

John threw his hands in the air. 

“Stop! I’m getting out!”

The cab driver dutifully pulled over. John threw the door open and stomped out. He glared at you and Sherlock.

“I am NOT going back to the flat. You two better figure this out, fuck this out. I don’t care which. Just don’t make me a part of it.”

He slammed the door shut and stormed off. You threw yourself into his available seat and crossed your arms with a huff.

“He has no idea what he’s talking about,” you grumbled as the driver continued his most interesting ride of the month, possibly the whole year.

You and Sherlock didn’t talk for the entire ride back. Every now and again, your eyes would catch each other in a sideways glance. But like opposing magnetic poles, they instantly bounced away. The only sound that accompanied the rest of the ride was the erratic thumping of your heart. 

Could he hear it too? Like how he heard everything else that you left unspoken.

When you finally, finally, finally arrived at 221B Baker Street, you tossed some cash at the driver. You leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“Extra fifty in it for you if this never happened.” 

He nodded. You placed the money in his front pocket and patted his chest before exiting the taxi.

The cool night air nipped your bare shoulders. You crossed your arms for warmth and shuffled inside. Sherlock, already sitting in his chair, left the doors wide open as a standing ovation to your theatrics.

When you got inside, you washed off your face and threw your heels next to the couch. Relieved to let your body breathe, you plopped in John’s chair across from Sherlock—who since abandoned his coat—and sighed. 

His chin was resting over his knuckles as he focused his gaze on the skull on the mantelpiece. He narrowed his eyes as if to ask why the laws of nature cursed him with you in his life.

After a moment of heavy silence, orchestrated by the both of you for once, you extended your first olive branch.

“As much as I hate to admit it, John’s right. We should talk this out.”

Silence.

“Please, Sherlock. Don’t give me the silent treatment. Not now. We won’t make any progress if we’re constantly at each other’s throats. Apparently very literally tonight.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you.”

Silence.

You took a deep breath and stood up. Cautiously, you walked over and leaned your hip on his chair but he turned away.

“Sherlock…”

You extended your hand out to him. But when your fingertips touched his shoulder, he swatted your hand away. He brought his knees to his chest to curl into himself. You sprang upright and threw your hands in the air. 

“You are a real piece of work you know!”

You stomped over to stand behind John’s chair. Gripping the top with a tension that pressed intends in the fabric, you hung and your head and groaned.

“I just don’t understand you. One moment I can’t be close enough to you and the next I can’t get far enough away.”

Silence.

You crossed your arms and shook your head.

“I just want to smack you,” you grumbled. “I just want to...I just want to smack you…”

You furrowed your brow as you glanced at the floor. 

“John,” you swallowed. “He was angry. He was really angry. Angry at her and everything.”

Silence.

“And you knew. You knew that he needed to do something with it. That he was in danger. Attacking you would not only give him a safe outlet, but also add clout to his cover.”

Silence.

“And you did the same for me.”

Silence.

“Sherlock…”

You walked to his chair and crouched down so he had to face you. You placed a hand on the side of his face to redirect his eyes so they would finally meet yours.

“You let us attack you, you let us hurt you so that you could protect us.”

You shared a few breaths together as you studied his eyes and the unspoken words that danced behind them. You drew in a deep breath.

“You’re a good friend, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you.”

You rose to your feet and he unfurled in his chair. Sherlock put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. Through remorseful eyes, you watched as he hung his head and stared at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry for snapping at you and for, for kissing John. I’m sorry. It seems to be the only thing I can say to you.”

He tapped his foot once. You took a deep breath.

“I-I should just go. I’m sorry, for everything. Again” you whispered.

You took a few steps toward the door. But he grabbed ahold of your wrist to stop you in your tracks. You slowly turned to him and waited for him to speak. But he continued to communicate only through his eyes.

“Sherlock, I don’t, I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t do this. I can’t play any more games. Please, help me understand.”

He released your wrist and rose to his feet. You took a step back, but he wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you close to him. You threw your hands to your chest and held your breath. With the gentlest of touches, he brushed your hair out of your face with the side of his thumb. 

Your heart pounded against the inside of your chest as you refused to break eye contact with him, unwilling to miss a single byte of information from his longing gaze. He stroked the side of your cheek and traced your jawline.

Trying, trying so hard to help you understand.

You finally released the aching breath in your lungs and unfurled your arms from your body. Biting your lip, you wrapped one hand around his back. You tentatively raised the other to his chest and placed your palm flush against him to soak in the rhythm of his heart.

He leaned in to barely brush his lips against yours.

“Friends?” he whispered.

“Friends.”

He tangled his fingers in your hair and drew you into a kiss—John’s skewed definition of friendship be damned. You wrapped your hands around the back of his neck to pull him closer to you, encouraging the increasing depth of his kisses with equally matched devotion in yours. 

Each brush of his lips and stroke of his hand across your face whittled away the iron bars outside the caverns of your heart. You trailed one hand down his neck to rake your fingers down his chest. Reaching the end of his shirt, you hooked a finger into the waistline of his trousers and pulled him closer to you. 

“No more games?” you breathed between earnest kisses.

“No more games.”

Never allowing his hands to leave your body, you slowly walked backward to guide him to his bedroom. You shamelessly untucked his shirt from his trousers and furiously worked to unbutton him. Lips entranced in yours, he protected your elbows from knocking over beakers and mugs along the kitchen table—unsure which of each contained edible or toxic liquids.

Once you arrived at your intended destination, he closed the door behind him. He withdrew his lips from yours and wrapped his hands around your face. Breath heaving, he softened his gaze.

“Do you—”

_Trust me._

_Want this._

_Want me._

“Yes. Do—”

“Yes.”

He kicked off his shoes and threw his fingers back into your hair, massaging your scalp as he resumed his fervent pace of dancing with your lips. Your hands took in fistfuls of his now open shirt and pulled him on top of you in bed.

Your body, for one, praised you for developing the relationship with the shapeshifting piece of furniture that you always wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is pure smut. It will not be necessary to read for the storyline if you choose to skip. :)


	21. The Sound of Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18+ this is SMUT. I'm not particularly explicit in my word choice. But feel free to skip if you prefer not to read.
> 
> Musical inspiration for this is [The Sound of Silence by Disturbed.](https://youtu.be/u9Dg-g7t2l4)

Sherlock propped himself on his knees and tossed his shirt aside—now having no use for the item of already forgotten clothing. He threw his hand back to the side of your face and stole your breath with a desperate kiss.

You pulled away and gasped for air.

“Wait, wait,” you whispered.

His eyes bore into yours. 

“Not good?”

You smiled softly and stroked the side of his face with the back of your hand.

“Very good. The best. Just, just slow down.”

He furrowed his brow.

“I have been running all my life, Sherlock. And, at this moment, I don’t have to.”

You placed your hand on his chest to soak in the thumping of his very much beating heart.

“In fact, with you, I don’t want to,” you breathed.

Sherlock drew in a slow breath and commanded the muscles of his body to relax. His face softened and he lowered himself onto his forearms. They rested on either side of your face as protectors of the delicate spell you cast on him.

He traced the side of your face with his thumb. After a swallow, he leaned in to gently press his lips to yours. You breathed him in like your lungs never felt the liberation of fresh air before. 

You threaded the fingers of one hand into his curls and stroked his back with the other. As he pressed himself into you, you propped your thigh on his hip to support his bodily decision. 

Your lips trailed along his jawline as you tucked your nose behind his ear. You kissed along his neck, but when your focus on a particular spot received a pleased grumble from his throat, you bit down and sucked to extract more pleasure from his flesh. 

With your upper body now raised, Sherlock wrapped his hand around your back. His thumb brushed your skin as he claimed the pull of your zipper between the pads of his fingers. 

He paused.

“Please do.” You nipped his earlobe.

He slid the zipper down your back like an artist drawing open the curtains to unveil his life’s masterpiece. You wrapped your body closer to his to grant him easier access. But when the zipper served its purpose for the evening, you arched your back so he could pull your dress down your body. 

With a few gracious kicks, you were free of the useless garment, leaving you bare to him with only delicate lace concealing your lower half.

His pupils blew wide open at the sight. His eyes started to trail down the length of your scar in the middle of your abdomen. But you threw your hands into his hair and yanked his lips back to yours, commanding that he focus his attention elsewhere.

As he kissed you, Sherlock tentatively raised his hand to hover over your breast. You slipped your tongue into his mouth and he allowed the pads of his fingers to barely graze the pliable surface. Your breath hitched and he glanced down to take in the sight of the goosebumps across your skin.

He turned back to you and tilted his head ever so gently to the side. You gazed back to request that he continue. So he lowered his lips back to yours and palmed your breast with compassionate pressure. You moaned into his mouth as he absorbed the warmth of you—your skin burning hot with desire.

True to his scientific nature, Sherlock experimented with a variety of strokes, squeezes, and pressures. He curiously rubbed your erect nipple between the pads of his fingers. As if by command, you raised your pelvis to kiss his in desperate praise—appreciating the physical evidence that you were, indeed, having the same effect on him that he had on you.

He groaned in appreciation at the contact. But to your brief disappointment, he leaned back to pepper kisses down your throat. Wanting to share the same pleasure you offered him, he grazed his teeth at the base of your neck. But when your muscles tensed, he took note and instead continued to adorn your neckline and clavicle with grateful kisses.

His quest ultimately led to your other breast. Determined to make up for the lack of attention, he brushed his lips against your nipple in a chaste kiss before softly sucking at the ridged flesh. You gasped in delight and rolled your head back, eyelids fluttering in pleasure.

With his back arched to accommodate the devoted attention to your breast, you had just enough room to squeeze your thighs together in an aching cry for his continued exploration of your body.

He obliged by trailing his hand down your waist. When his thumb brushed against your burn mark, you latched your fingers around his wrist and tensed.

He froze.

Raising his face from your chest, Sherlock stared into your wide eyes as you swallowed. After two heavy breaths, you freed him and clutched the edge of the mattress to open the lower half of your body to his curiosity.

He brought his face back to yours to study every change in your expression for what he would do next. Starting at the outside of your hip, he lifted the very edge of your lace to trace it with his thumb.

You bit your lip and whimpered as he closed in—your desire peaking near painful at this point. Although, you couldn’t be the only one. In a compassionate act to relieve the man of his suffering, you pulled him into a kiss as you gently palmed his hardness.

With a guttural grunt, he lost all focus and grabbed a hold of your thigh for balance as he threw his head back. Unfortunately for you, abandoning his previous line of experimentation in the process. 

“Please. Don’t, don’t stop,” you prayed to him.

Eyes still closed, he gave you a single nod before returning his attention to you. In a single motion, he stripped you bare and you sucked in a breath at his abruptness—leaving you to abandon your last item of coverage with a flick of your ankle.

He leaned back down to return his lips to yours. Grateful, you started to unbuckle his belt in a silent request for him to join you in your nakedness—unsure why God would be so selfish as to require clothing on such a divine specimen as Sherlock Holmes.

However, your progress was stalled as you fumbled with the buckle. Typically a woman of great physical dexterity, all sense of space and time was lost to your hopeless fingers as he swiped his across your wetness.

You gasped in pleasure and stared at his smirk with wide eyes. He leaned in to kiss you as he eagerly traced his fingers through your folds—finding a great satisfaction in the convulsions of your body when he focused on the sensitive bundle of nerves at the top.

With the gentlest pressure, he rubbed you between the pads of his fingers to tune your body with the same precision as his violin. You finally undid the buckle of his belt and released his zipper. But Sherlock, being his own worst enemy at that moment, decided to insert two curious fingers into you.

“Oh God!” you cried out as your hands flew from him to fist the sheets.

He cocked an eyebrow. You narrowed your eyes back. But your typical desire to punish him for such arrogance was no match for the sudden curl of his fingers. He started radiating pleasure through you with each thrust of his musician’s hand—leaving you a whimpering mess at his mercy.

Staring at him with wide eyes and trembling lips, he continued at a vigorous pace. As hypothesized, you gasped and moaned in delight.

“Sherlock, I—”

“Not yet.”

You helplessly tugged at his trousers and cried out when he removed himself from you. Chuckling lowly, he leaned back in to kiss you, but you shoved him off and rubbed your thighs together.

“Sherlock Holmes, take your FUCKING CLOTHES OFF!”

You certainly didn’t need to tell him twice and he bounced off the bed to strip bare for you. His manhood, commanding the full attention of the room, inspired your eyebrows to raise themselves in salute. He snickered and stroked himself just for the satisfaction of watching you suck in your breath. You threw your head back with a groan.

“You will be the death of me.”

He gleefully returned to bed and slotted himself between your knees. Smirking, he aligned himself with your entrance—knowing his experimental faculties would certainly subside after this. 

But he furrowed his brow when he glanced back at your face.

_Pupils dilated. Chest rising and falling with rapid breath. He didn’t even need to check your pulse to know that your heart was racing, pounding against the inner walls of your chest._

Even in his chemically intoxicated state, Sherlock decoded your cipher in a way that no other man on earth could. 

And he needed, _needed_ , you to know that.

He leaned down and gently wrapped his hands around your upper back to guide you up to him. Your lips trembled in anticipation as he placed your hands on his ribcage. 

Following his lead, you snaked your arms around him for stability. You stared into his eyes for a few breaths. But before you could disturb the sacred sound of silence, he pressed his lips to yours. 

Then, with the tenderness that could only be exhibited by a man in love, he pulled you on top of him as he laid down before you. You let out an exhale of relief as your eyes started to glisten with gratitude. 

The game was not to be won—for no one was playing anymore.

You placed your hands on his chest and lowered your hips to his, kissing him with your wetness. Groaning in appreciation, he rested his head back and closed his eyes. You continued to stroke him with your folds with a building, building, _building_ rhythm of your hips.

Digging your nails into his chest, you bit your lip and whimpered as his eyes met yours again. Both of you craving deliverance from the building heat, you elevated yourself from him just enough to align him at your entrance. You embellished him with a few appreciative strokes as you sucked in a breath.

Eyes never leaving his, your breathing lost all sense of rhythm as you slowly lowered yourself onto him. You allowed him to fill you with a divinely orchestrated balance of pleasure and pace. 

When your skin was flush against his, you threw your head back as a devastated cry erupted from your throat. He hissed a breath of relief through gritted teeth as he dug his nails into your hips, helping you thrust back and forth.

His room filled with the crescendo of your moans as you rocked your hips to the pulse of your pleasure. He accompanied you with the bass of his grunts and groans, having lost all access to the language center of his brain.

Hands latched to your body, he supported your movements as you experimented with a variety of swirls, jolts, and quivers from your hips. But when a particular

_almost_

combination 

_gasp_

set your 

_there_

entire body afire with pleasure,

your eyes begged each other for mercy.

With a fateful thrust, your body convulsed all around him as your trust fall came to a violent climax. Grateful for your timing, for Sherlock wasn’t sure if could last another _fucking_ minute, his head fell back with a guttural groan. 

He released himself—finally getting to pop the champagne of your physical union—as your body thanked him with a final selection of twitches and tremors. Your skin prickled with lingering sensation as sweat glistened from your gasping body.

After a round of heavy breaths, you flung yourself next to him and melted in the bed.

Leaving both of you panting to the sound of silence. 


	22. Go the Fuck to Sleep

Your psyche taunted you that night as it threaded your fears through reality. 

Standing in the sitting room in your scarlet dressing gown, you carefully plucked the index cards from the wall. From behind, Sherlock wrapped his arms around your waist and nuzzled your neck.

“Did you really store away all this information?” 

He nodded into your shoulder.

Right as you turned to kiss him on the cheek, John opened the front door. 

“Oh, thank God,” he gasped.

You turned to thank him for being the patron saint of painfully chosen friends. But when you opened your mouth, he waved his hand and went to his room.

You felt a gentle chill up your backside now that Sherlock was no longer there. Cards still in hand, you spun around to see him holding a metal bin and lighter. You smiled as he set the bin on the floor and you relieved the lighter from his hand.

Teasing the flame across the cards, your eyes lit up as the warmth kissed your fingertips. When the paper caught fire, you tossed the cards in the bin and took a deep breath.

“They’re not the only thing that looks beautiful as it burns,” a haunting voice growled.

The blood in your veins crystalized to ice. You raised your gaze to see Clint—standing in Sherlock’s place—sneering at you through the glow of the cursed flames. Your breath hitched as you bolted toward the door. But he snatched your wrist and spun you into his chest.

You squirmed in his grasp and shrieked. You curled your knees to your chest. But instead of slamming your heels onto his toes, your foot went straight through him. You howled in defeat as your feet slammed into the floorboards.

“I’LL KILL YOU!” you shrieked.

Clint wrapped his hand around your mouth and slid it down your throat. No matter how much you screamed, no sound escaped your lips—the ghost having effectively stolen your voice. You continued to squirm with his arm wrapped around your waist. But even giving it your all, it wasn’t enough to fight your endless nightmare.

“Why didn’t you treat me to this terror when we were together? We would have had so much more fun.”

You threw your head back to ram your skull into his chin. But the action only reverberated pain throughout every nerve ending in your body. You hung your head and he tucked your hair behind your ear.

“You’re such a fighter, baby girl. I really shouldn’t have let you go. Even as part of the game.”

He leaned in to kiss your cheek. But you turned your head and snapped your teeth at him.

“HEY!” he barked. 

Clint spun you around and pinched your cheeks in his hand before slamming your body against the wall. He grabbed you by the throat as you clawed at his forearms. But when you peeled his skin with your nails, it instantly grew back to mock you.

He leaned in to bring his nose a breath away from yours, flashing you a sickly smile.

“Now, let’s remind you who you really belong to. Can’t have your detective lover boy taking what’s mine.”

He untied the sash of your dressing gown and latched his palm to your abdomen to sear your brand into your flesh. You threw your head back and howled silent screams.

“After all, you’re my—”

Your eyes bolted open to the smell of burning flesh. But the stench dissipated as you took in the sight of Sherlock grunting and trying to pry your hands from your throat. 

With a gasp, your hands flew to the sheets as you scrambled away from him. Your eyes darted around, begging the moonlit darkness to stop spinning. On his knees, Sherlock raised his palms in the air as his own breath tried to slow down—although it tried to no avail.

After a few prominent thumps of your heart, you finally met his gaze. He slowly lowered his arms and studied your every movement. Having borrowed his button-up, you moved aside the ends of his shirt to see scratch marks over the scar from your burn.

You looked back at Sherlock with wide eyes. His breath heaved as he stared back at you; face stricken with unbridled terror. 

Cautiously, you extended your hand out to him. But he bolted from the bed and to his feet.

“Sher-Sherlock, what is it?”

He threw his hands into his hair and started shaking his head, avoiding all eye contact with you. You tilted your head to the side and furrowed your brow.

“Oh god. Did I, did I hurt you?” you whispered.

Closing his eyes, he swallowed and shook his head.

“Then what’s wrong?”

Sherlock put his hand over his mouth and gasped an aching breath. 

“Sherlock. What, what did I do wrong?” 

You bit your lip as your breath became rapid and shallow. He finally looked back at you with redness adorning the rims of his eyes.

“Any time, any time that I...” 

He stopped.

“Any time that you what?”

You leaned forward. But he lurched back and held up a finger, commanding you to stay put.

“You have nightmares,” he said.

“Only sometimes. I rarely dream. But when I do, yeah, they’re nightmares.”

“The night we, we…” 

He pursed his lips. His eyes flickered to the floor and back to you. Your eyes widened as you recalled the unfortunate evening that started and ended the game between you.

“You threw yourself from John’s bed in a fit.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t remember that.” You scrunched your face. “John was right there.”

“He’s a military man. The flat could be on fire and he’d sleep through it.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath and pressed his back to the wall. He sank to the floorboards. 

“I went to see what happened. But you hopped back in bed. That’s when I knew that you could walk.”

“What? I don’t remember that at all.”

He shook his head. “You fell asleep right after. I waited.”

You knit your brows together in a desperate attempt to recall that evening. But you could only remember waking up to the sound of Sherlock’s premonition when he pretended that Ashworth was there to take John.

“And then there was the night out with John. The night…” he continued. “You woke up screaming and put your gun in my face.” 

Sherlock pressed his palmed to his forehead and groaned. “I told you I wasn’t there to hurt you. You begged me not to train anyone. You wouldn’t rest until I said we didn’t have to start until the morning.”

“I swear, I don’t remember that. I didn’t mean…”

“I know.”

He buried his face in his hands.

“But I didn’t hurt you. You said that I didn’t hurt you. You said...”

“No, you’re not getting it. You’re not seeing the pattern.”

“Pattern? What are you talking about?”

“The pattern. The pattern of your nightmares.”

He dragged his hands down his face and leaned his head back against the wall. He gazed into the distance through his eyes that started to cloud with mist and regret.

“They only happen when I touch you,” he whispered.

“What are you talking…”

But you sucked in a breath.

_ He was right. _

It never hurt so much for him to be right.

The viscous air weighed down as you watched Sherlock look away from you. You allowed the sight filter through your body and break cracks along your heart. Certainly, it was more penance for your sins.

“What do we do?” you asked.

“I...”

He stopped.

“Sherlock...”

You watched him in silence. But after a few painful breaths, you got up from the bed and kneeled before him. He turned his head to avoid looking at you.

“Please, how do we fix it?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“But you always—”

“I know.”

Hanging your head, you dug your nails into the floorboards. You would say that it was unfair. But your conscience knew better. Your heart, however, continued to believe in such childish sentiment as injustice.

You took a deep breath and placed your hands on each side of his face, forcing him to look at you.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered.

“You don’t think I know that?” he growled through gritted teeth. 

You withdrew your hands from him as your eyes widened. 

“You’re so convinced," he snapped. "So convinced that you know who I am...what I am. You’ve made me out to be the monster who haunts you in your sleep. But I have never  _ once _ hid myself from you.”

He rose to his feet and you followed suit. You took a step back as he leaned forward.

“But you.” Sherlock pointed a finger as his upper lip twitched. “YOU are the one who never tells me anything. You are the one swallowing secrets, breathing lies, and then screaming that you can’t trust ME. 

“All while asking me to save the day. To save you from the mess that you leave anywhere you step foot. The ground bleeds wherever you walk. And I told you from the beginning, Agent, Eve, or whatever cursed name you want to call yourself, I am no hero and I certainly won’t be for—”

_ SLAP. _

His head twisted to the side as your palm struck his face. 

You grit your teeth as you watched his curls fly through the air. Clenching your fingers, it took every ounce of your willpower to not ball them into a fist. Eyes searing with tears and rage, you nearly eviscerated him with your gaze alone.

_ Nearly. _

Fingers pressed to his cheek, Sherlock turned his head back to you.

“Are you done?” you spat.

His jaw ticked.

“I have laid next to pure evil. And yet, you are, by far, the most insufferable man I have ever known. Now shut up and get back in bed.”

You sucked in a breath and rammed your finger into his chest.

“You will  _ not  _ think yourself to death in self pity. You will  _ not _ lie awake all night and watch me. And you will  _ not _ lie six feet away from me.”

You grabbed his wrist and yanked him back to bed. On your side, you pulled his hand over your waist.

“You will hold me. You will do what good friends do when one of them is upset instead of attacking me. And you will like it. Are we clear?”

You turned your head to him and narrowed your eyes. Even in the moonlight, his face was expressionless. 

You started to roll your eyes with a grumble. But he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours. With his persistence, the muscles in your face relaxed. You eventually traced the side of his cheek with your fingertips, almost feeling the stinging tingle on your own skin. Upon your acceptance, Sherlock pulled you closer as your body melted into his.

“Thank you,” you breathed.

You turned your head away from him and he nodded into your shoulder.

“Now,” you took a deep breath, “Go the fuck to sleep.”

The next morning, Sherlock woke up to an empty bed. He furrowed his brow and glanced around to see no sign of you anywhere.

He dashed into the kitchen. His eyes darted all around. His heart skipped a beat when he saw your belongings were no longer scattered around the couch. 

Sherlock raced upstairs and swung John’s door open. The doctor, blessed by a dead sleep, was awoken to Sherlock furiously shaking him.

“Where is she?!”

“Sher-wha? What time is it?”

“Where IS SHE?”

“Eve? She’s not, not with you?” He squinted. “You’re not wearing a shirt. She  _ should _ be with you.”

Sherlock ran downstairs and pressed his fingertips to his lips. After a few racing beats of his heart, he bolted to the metal bin. 

He rifled through its contents to see ash, a fresh orchid Mrs. Hudson bought—she really needed to stop buying plants to ‘brighten up’ the place. They only perished with the rest of the rubbish—and a few dried up markers.

John finally trotted downstairs. Watching Sherlock, he rubbed the back of his neck and gently shook his head.

“I’m sure she’s just out. You’re probably over—”

But his eyes went wide when he looked at the empty couch. 

John ran upstairs and grabbed his mobile to dial you. You picked up on the second ring.

“What the hell, John? I don’t have any contacts in here and suddenly your name shows up.”

“Yeah, I, er, added both of us to your phone.”

“It’s password protected.”

“I got the first password right. You two think so little of me.”

“No, John. You’re probably the most capable of all of us. Why are you calling?”

“Where are you? Your stuff is gone and Sherlock is having a fit.”

The front door of the flat opened and you walked in with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder. Your hands were otherwise occupied with a tray of coffees and a bag of take out. Sherlock spun around and his pupils blew wide open.

“I went to get breakfast. Just got back,” you murmured into the phone.

John scurried downstairs and relieved the food from your hands. You hung up and slid your phone into your back pocket. 

“Thanks.” You smiled at him before turning to Sherlock, who only blankly stared at you.

“As much as I like the view, you should probably put on a shirt. For John’s sake.”

John started helping you unpack breakfast. But Sherlock continued to stare at you with wide eyes.

“What?” You raised an eyebrow.

“He thought you left. For good,” John whispered.

“Oh, no. I just put my stuff in a box in his closet. I figured I could relieve your couch of my mess.”

You furrowed your brow and looked at Sherlock.

“Is that okay? I thought, well, I thought since we—”

He marched over and brought your lips to his, hands protecting either side of your face as if you would disappear at any moment. You trailed your hands across his waist and to his back.

He kissed you with the same awe and wonder a child beholds when gazing at the moon. But to his displeasure, you pulled your lips away from his just enough to speak.

“Get dressed. For John. Remember? You have to be nice to him today."

John’s eyes flickered between you and Sherlock, who were still very much tangled in each other. He glanced down at his lonely breakfast. All too familiar with being caught in the crossfire of your tension, he cleared his throat.

Sherlock blinked a few times and eventually removed himself from you. Without another word, he returned to his room. First confirming that the box which previously held your belongings in John’s room was now, indeed, in his. 

He quickly threw on a shirt and walked back to the kitchen. Before joining you and John, he entered his mind palace to check on your dedicated room. He stood outside and stared at the blank name plaque. After a sharp exhale, he cautiously opened the door.

Only to open his eyes to the real world and the sight of you laughing with John.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and closed his eyes. Peculiar.

He, once again, stood in front of your door in his mind palace. Glancing it up and down, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Perhaps he lost focus due to his unnecessary panic—no, concern...or was it uncertainty?—from earlier. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and harnessed the entirety of his mental focus. He placed his fingertips to the handle and turned.

“Did it feel good? When you punched him?” You sipped your coffee.

“Ahh, the best,” John snickered.

You closed your eyes and laughed. After another sip, you smiled at Sherlock.

“Bring us some silverware so we can eat breakfast?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. A curious result. He didn’t have enough information to theorize what just happened. He would have to investigate further.

“Unless you need to spend more time in your mind palace.” You cocked an eyebrow.

“Um, no.”

He turned and opened the drawer to stare at the forks and knives. 

Yes, he would be nice to John today. Not because he lost the bet.

But for you.


	23. Forbidden Fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends in smut. Musical inspiration is [Use Me Up by Wanderhouse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6fQsrEVhpxI).

“Are you two serious?” John cocked an eyebrow from behind his laptop.

“As a case.” 

You beamed at him from the couch. 

“And he has willingly agreed to this?”

“Well, he lost a bet.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. He squirmed next to you and picked at the sleeve of his otherwise untouched coffee.

“What was the bet?” John shook his head. “Nevermind, I probably don’t want to know.”

You shrugged. John cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Make me a cuppa?”

Sherlock’s face went from uncomfortable to are-you-fucking-kidding-me in exactly .3 seconds. 

“You’re drinking coffee right now.”

“And I think it would go great with some tea.”

Sherlock glared at you.

“What? I’m not the one who asked.” You raised a hand in defense.

“Then why don’t you do it.”

“Er, no. I didn’t ask Eve. I asked you. Now be a nice boy and make me some tea.”

Muttering under his breath, Sherlock sulked to the kitchen. You chuckled and speared a potato from your breakfast.

“You’re really going to exploit this, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.” John smirked.

“Any word from Claire?” 

“Not yet. How long does it usually take?”

“Oh, um. They’ll want to check your background. You’ve got a public persona so it shouldn’t be too difficult. I’m sure Claire will vouch for you after your brilliant performance. But with the deal happening in the next few weeks, I don’t know how high priority you’ll be. Might take some time.”

You bit your lip and picked at your food. John furrowed his brow. But before he could continue studying you, his vision was blocked by a teacup thrust into his face.

Raising his eyebrows, John evaluated the concoction and shook his head.

“Too much milk. I’m not a child.”

Throwing his head back, Sherlock rolled his eyes with a groan. He shot daggers at you with his eyes when you started to snicker. You threw your fist in front of your mouth and stared at your breakfast instead—leaving Sherlock to strut back to the kitchen with a huff.

“It’s not about the milk,” you muttered.

John crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Never is.” 

The two of you watched Sherlock slam a new mug onto the counter. After pouring the water, he spun around to snatch an empty measuring cylinder from the table.

“Didn’t that have acid in it last week?” John called out.

“Maybe.”

“I thought you had to be nice? Not poison me.”

“Wouldn’t your death be a great kindness to us all?”

You and John exchanged an amused glance. 

“I’ll help him,” you offered.

John chuckled and continued to eat his breakfast. 

In the kitchen, you rested your hand on Sherlock’s back.

“I’ve got it from here.”

“He’s rude, demanding, needy, and enjoying my suffering. What kind of a person treats his friends like this?”

“Uh, do I really need to answer that?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. You grabbed the teacup that he first offered John.

“That’s the one I just—”

“It’s not about the milk. Keep up, Holmes.”

With a smile, you offered John his tea.

“To the best friend a woman could ask for.”

“Thank you.” He beamed at you and accepted your offering.

"Hey," Sherlock whined from behind you.

You bit your lip and watched John as he gleefully took a sip. After he deemed it worthy, you crossed your arms and glanced down.

“So, John...about the—”

He raised a finger to stop your line of questioning. You cocked an eyebrow. 

“Never speak of it again?” you asked.

“Never.”

Pursing your lips, you gave him a curt nod before sitting back on the couch with Sherlock. He started tracing circles on your knee. Glancing at his curious thumb, you bit your lip then looked at John.

“I think we should take a day off.”

“What?” they replied in unison. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow and removed his hand from you. You resumed peeling apart the sleeve of his coffee and shrugged.

“Ever since I entered your lives, it’s been one crisis after the next. We still need to wait to hear from Claire. And when things get moving, who knows when we’ll have a day to just be…”

You sucked in a breath.

“Friends.” You smiled at John.

He let out a deep exhale and nodded.

“I think that’s a fantastic idea.”

“Great.” 

You leaned over and pecked Sherlock on the cheek, effectively short-circuiting his current thought process.

“I’m going to take a shower. You boys play nicely while I’m gone.”

As you walked to his bathroom, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you.

Time to investigate.

You opened the sliding door to his shower and examined the interior. After plucking his shampoo from its dedicated spot, you popped off the cap. With gentle squeeze, you breathed in the familiar scent.

You set the bottle back and turned on the water. When it reached the perfect degree of scalding hot, you stripped naked and hopped in. Facing the downpour of the urban rain, you ran your fingers through your hair to dampen your strands.

Shampooing your hair, you inhaled the notes of cedar and citrus as if they would never linger in the air again. If you were any more of a sentimental person, you might have felt tears mixed with the water as it cleansed the heaviness in your heart.

Good thing you were not cursed with the burden of sentiment. Not today at least.

Without opening your eyes, you heard the door slide open. From behind, Sherlock wrapped his hands around your waist and kissed the base of your neck.

“What did you do?” 

“He asked me to dictate his blog post.”

“And you couldn’t be bothered to just type some words for him?”

“I did.”

“John’s a lucky man.”

“But I stopped because the first sentence was ‘Sherlock Holmes is an idiot with no sense of what the word _friendship_ really means.’”

You snickered. But abruptly stopped when his hands trailed down to your hips. He continued to adorn your shoulders with the brush of his lips.

“Just what do you think you’re doing? I’m in the middle of shampooing my hair.”

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You turned your head to glare at him. He removed his hands from you and raised his eyebrows. Gritting your teeth, you resumed rinsing the last of the shampoo from your hair. 

“Today, there’s something particular about today,” he continued.

“Stop.”

“Any other day, you’re ready to die for your objective. But now you want a day off? No, this day holds meaning to you. An anniversary? A death? You’re so insistent on me being nice to John. A dead brother?”

“Sherlock, please.”

You closed your eyes and coated your hair in a layer of conditioner.

“No, it’s not family. But you are mourning someone. You don’t want your emotion to cloud your judgment today. The only question is who…”

You readjusted your head under the water to begin rinsing. He tilted his own to the side as he observed your every movement.

“...or what,” he muttered.

Sherlock furrowed his brow as water droplets continued to speckle his face. 

“This is the day that he tried to kill you. The day that your illusion of him shattered and he went from hero to monster.”

You turned around and latched your palms to either side of his face.

“He was never a hero to me. At one point, a savior perhaps. But no hero. I always knew that...nevermind. I don’t need to tell you that heroes don’t exist.”

You pulled his face closer to yours, allowing the water to fully drench his curls.

“Now shut up and shower. Or John will think we’re fucking.”

“We could also—”

“I’m not subjecting him to that. It will traumatize him.”

You turned around and reached for the handle. But Sherlock grazed his fingertips over your knuckles. He brushed his lips across your ear.

“Only if he hears you.”

The rumble of his voice sent chills up your spine. You tilted your head back and kissed his cheek with yours.

“We, we can’t.”

But his hands were already sliding across your waist, all friction lost to the hot water that gilded your skin. You started to lean back into him. But he firmly placed one hand on your hip to command you to stop.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, careful to deny your curiosity about his own physical state of being. He sank his teeth into your shoulder. One of his hands traversed the landscape of your lower abdomen while the other dutifully covered your mouth—preventing you from gasping in relief.

“You said you wanted me to be nice today. Make a sound and I’ll have to stop.”

His fingers inched closer to their desired location as your eyes grew wide. You could practically see him smirking behind you. Which, for the record, he was. Even as the water continued to rain down on you.

“Do you want me to stop?”

While not intended as a trick question, it certainly was. With a heavy heart, you shook your head.

“Good. I will fuck the memory of that monster from you.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you gripped the handle and set your foot on the edge of the tub. Taking that as his cue, Sherlock removed his hand from around your mouth before driving himself into you—finally satisfying your curiosity about his physical condition with a single, fateful thrust. 

His fingernails dug into your hips as he pressed forward to fulfill his promise to you—as if he could erase the demons from your history with his very imprint. You used your available hand to pleasure yourself as he pressed onward with a relentless pace.

Never before had brutality felt so good.

Water dripping from your eyelashes, you bit your lip to prevent the melodies of your gratification from escaping your mouth. You held your breath as Sherlock continued to fill you and stretch the bounds of your trust. You consumed him whole—allowing the radiating pulse of your pleasure to mask your regret.

Heart screaming from inside his chest, Sherlock continued to drive himself into you. His body communicated just how— _fucking_ —right he was with the same arrogance as his mind. 

Your fingers started to lose their grip as you slammed your eyes shut. You grit your teeth to obey your vow of silence, never minding the hypocrisy of his shameless grunts as you edged closer, _close_ , closer to salvation.

Your chest heaved as memories of the past unraveled from your heart. You scrambled to pick up the pieces. But you were no match for the force of his will.

As if by his command, your body convulsed—the climax of your pleasure ripped through you without prejudice of your worthiness of such ecstasy. Sherlock threw his head back as your walls pulsated around him, granting himself permission to coat them in a masterpiece of milk and honey.

If only you were a hero.

You might get to call him yours.

You inhaled a toxic concoction of relief and satisfaction as your senses returned to the physical world. After a few heaving breaths, Sherlock slowly removed himself from you—leaving you both at a complete loss for words.

Wrapping his hand around your waist, he pulled you into his chest. You turned your head, magnetizing his lips to yours in an instant. As he kissed you, your heart ached. 

_Could he taste the poison on your lips?_

You gently nipped him before pulling away.

“Cleanse me of my sins?” you breathed.

He nodded. With the utmost devotion, Sherlock proceeded to wash you. You leaned your head into his chest, grateful that your tears were equal to water in the torrential downpour of his shower. How cruel of God to let you taste the forbidden fruit of love before She cast you out of the garden.

You exited the shower, leaving him to tend to himself.

If only Sherlock knew the man you were mourning…

...was him.


	24. Simple Homegrown Terrorist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot of this case is from Season 4 Episode 24 of Criminal Minds called 'Amplification'

You latched your hands to the side of his sink with a tightness that rippled through your scar tissue. After painting a streak of clarity in the steam covered mirror, you stared into your eyes. 

For a moment you could swear you saw a glimpse of your younger self—the tormented child within. It’s like you came out of the womb a tortured soul.

But you cleared your throat when Sherlock stepped behind you and wrapped himself in a towel.

“I’m not lying because—”

“I know.”

You closed your eyes and swallowed. After a deep breath, you turned around and wrapped your arms around his neck. You drew him close to you and whispered into his ear.

“You don’t have to—” he started.

“Please, no one, and I mean no one, else knows. I need you to know.”

He nodded. 

“Promise me you won’t forget.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. Surely you knew his mind better than that. Then again, based on the way you were looking at him, perhaps you weren’t relaying a simple knowledge transfer.

“Promise.”

You hopelessly drank in the sight of his eyes looking at you, knowing you. After a slow exhale, you blinked a few times and shook your head.

“I-I don’t have any clothes.”

He gave you a nod and left. After getting dressed, Sherlock sorted through your belongings. He would have to get you more than a cardboard box to call home.

He transferred your clothes to you through a crack in the door before sitting on the couch to wait for you. Pressing his lips together, he entered his mind palace for further investigation. But, once again, when he turned the handle of your door, he opened his eyes to see John’s concerned face.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced downward. John swallowed and stared at him as if his gaze alone could force eye contact.

“I’m her friend too. Something is wrong.”

“It’s the anniversary of her death. The American edition.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“She lies. But the evidence doesn’t.”

John furrowed his brow and leaned back in his chair. After a moment he shook his head and clicked his tongue.

“Is, is she pregnant? Has this been happening for a while now?”

You stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed.

“No,” you and Sherlock answered.

Rolling your eyes, you threw yourself onto the couch and propped your feet on Sherlock’s lap. He traced circles around your ankles underneath the cuff of your jeans.

“I thought you two had more interesting things to gossip about other than me? The right milk proportions in a cup of tea perhaps?”

“What’s going on with you?” John asked.

“Nothing. I just wanted a day off. Why does that mean I have to have some hormonal imbalance?”

You crossed your arms and threw your head back.

“Besides, I can’t get pregnant. So you’ll never have to worry about that with me.”

“You can’t—”

“John, you are making it really difficult for me to be nice to you right now.”

You glared at Sherlock.

“What are you...Stop looking at me like that! I don’t like that look. Take it back!”

His eyes widened and you growled at him.

“What? You thought you were gifting me with your genius spawn? I didn’t take you as the fathering type.”

“What are you hiding?”

You sprang to your feet and threw your hands in the air.

“Everything! Have you met me? I have so many secrets and told so many lies that it’s all the same! I don’t even know what I’m hiding from myself anymore.”

You dragged your hand down your face.

“Except for that. That’s the doctor ensured—no, _as_ sured—truth. I can’t have children.” 

You glared at them. “Both of you stop this right now. Or I’m leaving. I can’t handle you looking at me like that. I just...I can’t.”

“Alright.” John raised his hands in the air. “Let’s...take the day off?”

“Thank you.”

“What do you want to do?”

You hung your head back and groaned.

“I just told you I haven’t done this ever. It’s supposed to be your day anyway, John. What do you do for fun?”

“Follow around a high functioning sociopath as he verbally abuses me and solves murder cases.” 

“We all have a twisted sense of fun don’t we?”

“Pretty much.”

You snickered. But the smiles on your faces went blank upon the sound of a fist pounding on the door.

“SHERLOCK!” Greg called out. “OPEN THE BLOODY DOOR!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked at you. But you only raised your eyebrows in reply. John sprang to his feet to let Greg and Donovan inside.

Panic crudely carved into his face, Greg shoved a folder into Sherlock’s hands. 

“I know you’ve been otherwise occupied, but we need you for this.”

Sherlock rose to his feet and started pacing around the room. He opened the folder to examine the photos and files of various patients.

_Fever. Chills. Lung failure. Black lesions._

“What’s going on?” John asked.

Greg put his hands on his hips and cleared his throat.

“We have thirty-seven people who checked into Bart’s last night. They were all at St. James Park yesterday around ten in the morning. The first victim died about twelve hours after being admitted. We already have fourteen dead with lung failure and black lesions.”

“An anthrax attack?” John asked.

You furrowed your brow. “Anthrax doesn’t kill that fast.” 

“And you are?” Donovan cocked an eyebrow.

“My special friend,” Sherlock muttered without looking up from the photos. “No, anthrax doesn’t kill this fast. But this strain does. It’s sophisticated. Only a scientist would know....”

He snapped his head upright and narrowed his eyes at Greg.

“You haven’t taken any precautions for mass targets?”

He shook his head. John blinked a few times and furrowed his brow at Greg.

“Wait, you haven’t done anything? Warned the public? What if there’s a second attack?”

He opened his mouth to reply. But you shook your head. 

“Mass panic will only cause more death.”

“The killer could also underground or destroy their samples.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the timestamps on the rapidly growing lesions.

Donovan wrinkled her nose. “Or they could be _begging_ for attention and if we don’t indulge them, they’ll escalate their attacks and kill even more people.”

“We have no way of predicting when or where the second attack will be.” Greg shook his head. “Our best bet is to—”

“Find the bacteriologist. And, if anyone is still alive, replicate his antitoxin. He has to have a cure. At least for himself,” Sherlock finished. 

John covered his mouth with his hand and grimaced. 

“Why would someone do this? Do any of the victims have high profile jobs?”

“No, just ordinary, everyday people,” Greg answered.

You bit your nail and glanced at the floor. 

“Could be someone who would profit from a cure. Cause panic and sell the solution.”

You glanced at Sherlock. His eyes flickered to you for a moment with a smirk.

_Think like a businessman._

“Could be anyone with access to weaponized spores. Possibly military?” John shook his head.

Donovan put her hand on her hip and glared at Sherlock. “Or anyone who’s just bored and wants to start a panic. For fun.”

Greg’s eyes flickered between the two of them.

“Either way, we’re running out of time,” he said.

Sherlock threw on his coat and tossed his scarf to you. As you wrapped it around your neck, Donovan scrunched her face.

“Whoa, whoa. And just who are you to come with us? What qualifications does she have?”

John glared at her. “We’re not going without her.”

Donovan’s eyes flickered to Greg. But he gave John a nod. 

Greg pulled out a bottle of pills from his pocket and emptied the last two. He held them out in his palm.

“We’ve all taken a dose of Cipro. We don’t even know if it’ll work against this strain. But it’s the best defense we have. I didn’t know there would be three of you. This is all we have left.”

John and Sherlock plucked the medication from his hand. Sherlock handed his pill to you. You furrowed your brow and shook your head.

“No, it might not even—”

“We don’t have time to argue. Take it or I will force you.”

You and John exchanged a glance. But you followed Sherlock's orders. He took a deep breath and nodded before the five of you left behind 221B Baker Street.

Now, _this_ was a day off.

Armored in masks and gloves, you and John paced around the lab as Sherlock studied a slide under the microscope. Molly bit her lip as she watched him.

“Three patients from two days ago with rapid organ failure?” he asked.

“Yes, but no lesions. They died within three hours of being admitted. Official cause of death was meningitis.”

“A higher dose would expedite the process. Didn’t give enough time for the lesions to form. It wasn’t meningitis. They were his test subjects.”

Sherlock looked up from the eyepiece.

“He created an incredibly sophisticated strain. Elegant even. But the fastest way to develop an antitoxin is to find his and replicate it.”

“Which means we have to find him. And fast.” John shook his head.

Molly grimaced. “Four more people have died.” 

“Should we visit the remaining patients?” you asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “No point. We can’t rely on their memory. The toxins have probably spread to their brains by now.”

He sprang to his feet and narrowed his eyes at Molly.

“What did the three test subjects have in common?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“We need to find someone who does.”

He marched out of the room.

Back at Scotland Yard, you were finally free of your protective gear. You stood in front of Greg with Sherlock and John and crossed your arms. Donovan walked into the room and tossed a file on the desk.

“Two of them visited the same restaurant. The third is the owner. It’s been closed since she died. But they just confirmed that it tested positive.”

Sherlock spun around to face the window and closed his eyes. His eyebrows twitched and he tilted his head to the side.

_Public park. Local restaurant. But why? Why these locations? What is his goal? Fear, public panic, education, revenge..._

John rubbed the back of his neck.

“Perhaps he’s trying to terrorize people with the mundane? Show them that there’s nowhere they’re safe?”

You shook your head. “Then why not start with a wide-scale attack at a train station or theatre? Somewhere crowded to incite a bigger panic?”

“Two trial runs?”

“Maybe...if he wanted to study the response before launching a secondary attack. But if you want to weaponize fear, you hit home. Somewhere meaningful. You take away the public sanctuary.”

“You think he’s targeting something like a church next?” Greg asked.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“These locations aren’t chosen at random. They might be mundane to anyone else. But they’re meaningful to him.”

He spun around and pointed a finger at you.

“He’s not just a terrorist. He’s a zealot. He attacked these locations because of their personal significance to him. He got revenge. But, ohh now he’s preparing for a second attack to prove a point. He’s just a...”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and tossed his hands in the air.

“Simple homegrown terrorist.”

Greg scoffed. “Twenty-one dead is anything but _simple_.”

Sherlock continued.

“In 2001, the London Stock Exchange received a suspicious package and thirteen people were removed as a precautionary measure. Workers at the Royal Mail sorting office were evacuated and isolated when letters started spilling white powder. The incidents were revealed to be hoaxes in light of the anthrax attacks in America. But that didn’t stop us from raising the questions if we were truly prepared for a war against bioweapons.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly as he started pacing. He closed his eyes and started rifling through his hard drive, waving his hands in the air to orchestrate his research.

_A scientist. A zealot. A warning. Preparedness. We must be prepared._

_“These attacks only show how vulnerable we really are. We must be prepared for when the hoax becomes a reality. Every person should take Cipro as part of their daily regimen. Arm yourself with gas masks and knowledge.”_

Sherlock froze. He opened his eyes and drew in a breath.

“What?” John asked.

“Not what. Who. Dr. Robert Edwards. Published a manifesto months after the 2001 attacks in America.”

“And you read it?”

“Of course. He's the one orchestrating the attacks so we take his fear seriously.”

Greg shook his head and his jaw ticked. “But why, why now? Years later?”

You looked at Sherlock.

“Something must have tipped him over the edge. Couldn’t stand people not listening to him.”

He nodded at you.

“We have to find him and his antitoxin.”

Outside of Edwards’ home, you crossed your arms.

“You really think he has it here? Why not his lab?”

“He probably has multiples. Hide it in plain sight. It’ll be easier for me to find it here without getting weighed down by hazmat suits and John.”

Your phone started ringing.

“Speak of the saint himself.” 

You pulled your phone out of your pocket and glared at Sherlock.

“Don’t go in there without me. He might not have been seen in the past week. But I don’t want you taking on a deranged zealot with biological weapons by yourself.”

He furrowed his brow as you answered the phone. You glanced down to kick a few pebbles on the pavement.

“Yeah, John. What did you guys find?”

“The lab is clean.”

“Clean? What do you mean? You’re saying—”

“He’s not keeping the anthrax here.”

“If it’s not there then it has to be…”

You spun around to see that Sherlock was gone.

He was already inside.

“Sherlock. He doesn’t have, have…”

Your heart started racing. Without another moment’s thought, you dropped the phone and ran in after him. 

“Eve, don’t go in until we get there. Do you hear me? EVE!”

Even if you did hear John screaming on the other end of the line, it wouldn’t have made a difference.


	25. Broken Promises

Heart racing, you barreled straight into the house. But you froze at the sight of Sherlock, wide-eyed and panicked, slammed the glass door to Edwards’ home-grown lab shut.

You ran over and pounded the glass and he furiously engaged the lock.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

But your breath caught in your throat when you saw a man, presumably the scientist himself, dead on the floor.

A broken vial stared back at you. Fresh blood splattered across the white powder next to it. Your eyes darted to Sherlock’s hand and the blood dripping from his fingers.

Sherlock’s gaze met yours and he swallowed.

“Single gunshot wound to the head. He didn’t, it wasn’t him. Or it wasn’t just him.”

“Sherlock Holmes, open the FUCKING DOOR!” You slammed your palm against the glass. “We are getting you to the hospital. John will be here any moment.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m already, already...the best chance we have is to find his antitoxin.”

“You are not spending another minute inside there. Get out NOW!”

“Stop hitting the glass! If it breaks, you’re endangering everyone else! You’re endangering yourself.”

“I thought you knew me better by now. I don’t give a single FUCK about my personal safety. Now open the GODDAMN DOOR!”

John wrapped his arms around your waist and tried to pry you from the glass. You writhed in his grasp.

“Eve, you have to let him do this. You have to let him work the case.”

“NO! He makes mistakes. He makes fucking stupid, moronic, arrogant mistakes! He gets it WRONG. He gets it wrong ALL the time and he doesn’t even KNOW IT.”

“SHUT UP!” Sherlock bellowed. “John, shut her up!”

The sweat started beading around his temples. He scrunched his face and pressed his palm to his forehead. After a deep breath, he threw his hands into his hair and started pacing back and forth.

You went limp enough in John’s arms that he could drag you out of the house. Holding you up with one arm around your waist, John dialed Sherlock.

You could only watch him from the window into Edwards’ sitting room.

“Don’t let her come back in,” Sherlock answered.

“I won’t.”

“The air was off. You, you should be fine. How many more?”

“More?”

“How many more patients are still alive?”

“Three.”

“I just have to find the antitoxin and we can, we can save them.”

“And yourself.”

Sherlock riffled through the papers in the room. His eyes darted all across Edwards' cluttered workspace. He studied the cages of dead animals in various states of decay.

You slid right out from John’s grasp and fell to the pavement. Palms pressed to your forehead and gasping for air, you started rocking back and forth with your elbows on your knees.

“He didn’t even, he didn’t even—”

“We didn’t know if it would have worked anyway.”

“I will NEVER forgive him for this!”

The line cut off and John redialed.

“I can’t focus with her screaming.”

“I know.” John put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Eve, you need to calm down. He’s going to get out of this.”

You bit your lip and buried your face in your hands. If only you cut your palm instead. It was 90% scar tissue by now anyway.

“Sherlock, what do you see?”

“There’s a second workspace. Small, organized, functional. Two sets of handwriting. Instructions for the safe transfer of spores. He has a partner...no it’s a student, a protege. Someone under him who wanted his knowledge.”

He threw the notebook back on the desk.

“She’s the terrorist.”

“She?”

“Yes, his student is a woman.”

“Sherlock…”

“I can’t, I can’t, John.”

“But—”

“She can’t hear me?”

John took a few steps away from you. “No.”

“You have to take care of each other. And not just you looking out for her. You, you have to let her take care of you too. She will do it with her whole heart.”

“What, what are you talking about?”

“And you can’t, you can’t let her go after that raging psychopath by herself. You have to kill him. You have to kill him yourself, John. Promise me that. She can’t do it. Whatever he did to her. She can’t do it. It has to be you.”

“Sherlock, stop. Stop this. This is madness. Stop it right now.”

Silence.

“You will find the cure. It’s right there. It’s in that room with you. Now find it.”

“His test subjects died in three hours.”

“There are others still alive and they were exposed long before you.”

“A breath through the air. This went straight into my bloodstream.”

Silence.

“Promise me.”

"I won't make any deathbed promises because you're not going to die."

"Please, you have to promise me."

Silence.

"John. You have to. Because your promises actually mean something."

Silence.

So much silence.

John slammed his eyes shut.

“What else do you see? Tell me about Edwards.”

“He, he was paranoid and secretive. If he has an antitoxin here, he would have hidden it somewhere inconspicuous and safe.”

“ _If_ he has an antitoxin here? IF he has one? Sherlock, you said he had to have one in there. That’s why you sent me to the lab.”

“Like she said, I make mistakes.”

Sherlock flipped through a stack of paper on his killer’s desk. His breath grew heavier with each beat of his heart. He wiped the sweat on his forehead with the back of his palm. His senses and his certainty drifted through the poisoned air.

“She, she took the antitoxin with her."

“What? How? He hid it from her.”

“No.” Sherlock stared at the photo in the bin with Edwards' face scratched off it. “They were lovers. He wanted to protect her from his own creation.”

“Okay, okay.” John pressed the back of his hands to his lips. “That doesn’t mean..that doesn’t have to mean...no. There is a cure and you will find it.”

You snatched the phone from John’s hand.

“He knew. He had to know that she could turn on him.”

“What?” Sherlock blinked firmly. He sank to the floor and leaned his back against a filing cabinet.

“If they were lovers, he would have known that about her. You can’t know someone that intimately and not know that they have the capacity to betray you.”

Silence.

“He gave her a fake antitoxin. It was one to show his trust. But he knew where the real one was. It’s in that room, Sherlock. You have to keep looking.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up and look. You said it yourself. It would be somewhere innocuous. Something _she_ would have seen every day and not thought twice about it.”

“I made a mistake. I always make mistakes.”

“If you don’t keep looking, if you don’t fight, I will come in there and murder you myself. Now search her fucking desk.”

With a groan, Sherlock stumbled to his feet. He set down his mobile and turned it on speaker. You could finally breathe again when you heard the sounds of drawers opening.

“Paper, notebooks, writing utensils, a box.”

“A box? What kind of box?”

“Velvet. Jewelry.”

“He’s brilliant. Hide what she can’t have in a gift. She wouldn’t think twice about it. Open it.”

“Necklace.”

You sucked in a breath as your stomach twisted in knots.

“Remove the bottom. The silk bottom of the box.”

“How’d—”

“Just do it.”

Per your instructions, Sherlock tossed the golden chain onto the desk. He pried the bottom out of the box to reveal two glass syringes. Etched on the side were seven haunting words.

_I don’t do drugs. I am drugs._

“Syringe. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. You're a scientist. Do you take the cure orally or intravenously?”

“Orally.”

“Then squirt that into your mouth and get the fuck out of there.”

“What if, what if—”

“It will work. It has to. You solved the case.”

You hung up the phone and tossed it back to John. He furrowed his brow. But you walked away without another word. 

John instructed the hazmat team to retrieve Sherlock and the cure from inside Edwards’ home. You stomped up to Greg who just arrived.

“She’s going to target Heathrow Airport.”

“How do you—”

“Get there and evacuate it now. Promise her that you’ll do her research justice like her mentor couldn’t and she will stand down. Enough for you to make an arrest.”

You sucked in a breath. “Sherlock told me. He’s occupied getting naked and hosed down right now. Figured you didn’t want to have to see that.”

“Right then.” Greg furrowed his brow and nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

John stood next to Sherlock’s stretcher as the paramedics prepared him for the ambulance. You walked up next to him and crossed your arms.

“Will he be okay?” John squeaked.

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock lazily swatted the hand of the paramedic.

“No, no pain medication. No drugs.”

You grit your teeth and swallowed.

“Because he won.”

John cocked an eyebrow at you. But you hopped into the back of the ambulance. One of the paramedics started shaking his head.

“Only one of you can—”

You shoved your gun in his face.

“Try that again. Or I’ll have a word with your boss.”

With wide eyes, he closed the doors and dashed to the passenger seat in front. Gun still in hand, you wiped your forehead with the back of your palm. 

John gingerly reached out and removed it from your grasp. He didn’t appreciate that the barrel was shamelessly pointed at his head.

“Oh right,” you murmured. You took it back from him and slid it into your jeans. “Sorry, it’s just been, it’s been a day.”

“I know.” John stared at Sherlock who was drifting in and out of consciousness.

“It’s not about the milk, John.”

He turned to look at you.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You know. For when he wakes up and badgers you for a cup of tea. Be patient with his needy ass. Because it’s not about the milk.”

“Er, right.”

The two of you didn’t talk for the rest of the ride. The only sounds that filled the ambulance were the howls of the siren and a few incoherent murmurs from Sherlock about promises and matters of the heart.

You never left Sherlock’s side at the hospital. Whenever a doctor or nurse entered the room, every muscle in your body tensed. John practically wept when they confirmed that he did take the antitoxin in time and would recover with a bit of rest.

 _Practically_ wept.

He made sure you knew that distinction.

You bore your eyes into Sherlock as he slept. But after a few hours, his eyelids started to flutter open.

“Not yet, please not yet,” you whispered under your breath, lips barely moving.

John rushed to his side. He looked at you and furrowed his brow as you continued to stare at Sherlock from your chair. Your face was utterly expressionless. Other than your eyes drilling into him.

You swallowed and gripped the edge of your seat even harder.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he opened his eyes to see John looking back. 

“How do you feel?”

He blinked a few times and tilted his head to see you staring at him from the other side of the room.

“Did they get—”

“Of course,” you snipped.

“Where?”

“The airport.”

“How?”

“They found her notes after they pulled you out.”

He leaned his head back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“And it worked?”

“Yes. The other three lived too.”

Sherlock knit his brows together and glanced at John.

“She’s been on edge ever since you got out of the house. She’s really worried.”

John’s eyes flickered to you, trying to soften the hardness of your face with the gentleness of his own gaze. But you continued to stare at the floor with your hands clasped between your knees. After a few breaths, he cleared his throat.

“I’ll...I’ll give you two a moment.”

John left and Sherlock tilted his head to you.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“You were right. I rushed. I was..” He swallowed. “I was too certain. I made a mistake.”

“Stop.”

“Forgive me.”

He watched you as you refused to look at him. Your jaw ticked at you clenched your teeth together. After a moment, you closed your eyes and sucked in a breath.

“What are you hiding?” he asked.

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

“I believe that would be me.”

John walked into the room with his hands raised in the air.

With Clint Riley behind him holding a gun to his back.

Dreading this moment all day long, your eyes flew open.

He won this round.

Like he always does.


	26. Kiss of the Devil

Sherlock’s eyes darted all around as he scrutinized Clint.

Approximately the same height and build as him. Although Clint was a bit broader in the shoulders. He wore a wool coat strikingly similar to his own. And Clint’s sharp jaw was speckled with stubble that matched his dark, albeit straight, hair.

Clint sneered and put his hand on John’s shoulder—revealing the nicotine stains along his cuticles. Sherlock didn’t need him to move to know that his belt buckle gleaned gold behind John’s back.

Sherlock lurched forward. But his neck was the only part of his body that could obey his mind’s command.

“Ah, yes. Asked the nurse to add a special concoction to your IV. Don’t fret. It’ll wear off when we’re done.”

Sherlock bore his eyes into you. But you continued to stare at the floor.

“You didn’t like my gift?” Clint pouted.

You rolled your eyes with a sigh.

_You. Rolled. Your eyes._

“You know that I hate your orchids. I can never keep them alive.”

“Yes, death does seem to follow you everywhere.”

You sprang to your feet and crossed your arms.

“Well, you found me. You win.”

“You know I always will, baby girl. Can’t leave my best prize unattended for too long.”

“Yes, after you nearly killed me.”

“Just enough so you could spring back to life. It was a challenge. One that you executed beautifully, my love. Now, we can get back to work?”

“She’s not going anywhere with you, you bloody psychopath,” John growled. 

Clint rammed his gun into his back even harder.

“Oooh, I like this one. I see why Ashworth was so fond. Too bad he isn’t here to see this. Thank you for taking him out for me, my dear. Sent the rest of his organization scrambling.”

John grit his teeth. 

“We will take you down. The American government will learn what a traitor you are.”

Clint chuckled lowly and snickered at you.

“You went with the CIA story? Well done.”

“Story, what story?” John asked.

“You sure are talkative for a man with a gun to him.”

He grabbed the collar of John’s jacket and threw him to the floor. You withdrew your gun and aimed it at his head. Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open. 

You told him earlier today.

How. Much. Did. He. Get. Wrong.

“Thank you.” Clint raised his eyebrows at you.

“I could feel the monologue coming,” you droned.

John blinked a few times to confirm that you, yes you, his dear friend, had your gun pointed at his face.

“You’re, what? Not CIA?”

“No, no, soldier.” Clint shook his finger. “I taught her early to let everyone assume that she’s government. They ask fewer questions about motives and training. Often underestimate you too.”

He winked at you before looking at Sherlock.

“Did she leave you the little clues? Make you feel smart for figuring out she’s a government agent who can interrogate by having a simple conversation? Let you fall in love with your own conclusions because you believe in your own intellect more than anything?”

“You’re, you’re working for this psychopath?” John gasped.

“Don’t insult me, Watson. I’m not working _for_ him.”

You clenched your jaw. Your upper lip twitched as you glared at John. All semblance of the woman he knew was erased from your face. Instead, your expression was riddled with disgust.

“She’s working with him,” Sherlock murmured.

“Don’t you dare make any more assumptions about her. Not after you got so much wrong,” Clint snarled.

You drew in a pained inhale. Clint sneered as he drilled his eyes into Sherlock. He was going to truly enjoy this particular moment of the detective’s life.

“This ravishing creature before you is no business partner of mine. Or she would already be dead. No, she is my greatest treasure. My wife.”

He tilted his head as a sickly grin spread across his face, taking a mental photo of Sherlock’s horrified face. Nostrils flaring with heavy breath, you stared at John as the hope drained from his face.

“Clint,” you growled. “Let’s get this over with and leave.”

“There you go, like always, rushing my fun.”

“No, I simply don’t want to have to shoot my way through a wave of cops and doctors to get out of here. It’ll draw too much attention to us.”

“Baby girl, I covered this floor. Called in a favor with Jim. Don’t you fret. He let me cash in for free when he figured out who my wife was fucking.”

“Fine, give them your grand speech. Show off your clever scheme. Then let’s go.”

“Very well. But only because I’ve missed you so dearly.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. You took a deep breath and tightened your grip on your firearm.

“A while back, I noticed a few inconsistencies in my records. Seemed that someone wasn’t accurately tracking my product. Which, as I’m sure you know, is a great risk in my line of work.

“To my great displeasure, I suspected that it was my beautiful wife, the one who helped me go from casual freelancer to renowned businessman. Without her skills at luring in the strong in body, but weak in heart, I never would have become the titan of industry that I am.”

“You, you’re the one who selects women and brings them to their deaths?” John looked at you with horror written across his face.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock stared at the ceiling. But even then, the room was spinning. “She’s the one who chooses the marks. She goes undercover and lures them based on what they want the most.”

“The ones with mommy issues are the easiest targets. So desperate for female approval.”

“She also lured in some of my favorite contractors. Men dying for power, they’ll fuck a married woman just to prove they can take whatever they want in life. We only want the ones with good instincts though.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“But I digress,” Clint continued. “I had to attack her to find the mole. Nearly killed her in the process. But I knew she’d get back up. She always gets back up. Isn’t that right, baby girl?”

You glowered at him. He snickered at the rage building in Sherlock’s face.

“I found and exterminated my rodent. But not before my darling disappeared. I thought that I broke her trust for all eternity. But imagine my delight when I learned that, not only did she not die a second time at the hand of my competition, but, instead, she _killed_ him.”

“And we...we helped you clean up the bodies.” John’s face twisted and he tried to maintain his grip on reality.

Clint tilted his head to the side and looked at you with soft, sinful eyes. 

“You just love me so much. You can’t help yourself but continue to do things to please me.”

“How else would I tell you that I was fine after you nearly killed me?”

“It was a good start. But I was horrified to find out you were shacking up with a child who calls himself a high functioning sociopath. What a pathetic way to remind people of your humanity, Holmes. She’s certainly got a type. But she only goes for the real deal. Empathy...bores her.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. His upper lip twitched in a snarl as he tried to eviscerate Clint with his eyes.

“You’re the child. Playing with human beings like they’re toys. You’re nothing but an addict at the whim of your drug of choice. Fear, nicotine, other people’s misery. It’s pathetic. Beating your wife and branding her into submission. And saying it’s all in the name of good business. You’re a repulsive waste of human existence. When you get to Hell, the devil himself will spit on your face.”

“Aw, look, baby girl. He’s trying to outmatch me. Isn’t it cute?”

Clint looked back at Sherlock. 

“I’ll tell you a secret, Holmes. Since I know you got a nice, good look at that scar. I didn’t brand her. She did. And in front of all my men. Just to prove her loyalty to me.”

“It’s true.” You shrugged.

“Everything you say is a FUCKING LIE!” Sherlock’s eyes burned with rage and betrayal.

“Aw, Mr. Holmes,” you sang. “You know me so well. Finally. After all this time.”

Clint smirked. “I applaud the way you blended in with these boys, my love. I think it’s some of your best work yet. The tantrum about having his children. Brilliant.”

“I knew you were listening. I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“Yes, as if you’d bear any man’s children but mine. Such a shame that miscarriage ended in your sterilization. But probably for the better, given our line of work. I’m not the fathering type either.”

Clint shook his head. “Waste of a good doctor though.”

“Clearly, she wasn’t good enough,” you snipped.

“You’re right. Not many Claire MacQuoids in the world are there? Far too many John Watsons.”

“Oh, I will walk you both to the gates of hell myself,” John spat. “The devil will be happy to see me again. And I will relish him spitting on your faces.”

Clint leaned over and spat on him. “That’s enough, Doctor. Do me a favor, baby girl. And shut him up.” 

“With pleasure.”

With a clean kick to the jaw, you knocked out John, effectively putting him out of his misery.

“JOHN!” Sherlock shouted. He writhed in his bed. But he could only move as far down to his shoulders. Baring his teeth, he glared at you. But you kept your focus on Clint as you slid your gun into the back of your jeans.

Clint wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you close to him. He traced the side of your face with his fingertips. You sucked in a breath and closed your eyes.

“What kind of man covers that beautiful neck of yours. Clearly he doesn’t know you as I do.”

He ripped Sherlock’s scarf from your neck. You took in a huge gulp of air as Clint latched his palm to your throat. He clamped down and snickered at Sherlock.

“I will KILL you!” he roared.

“Oh look at him! Even after he learns that everything about you was a lie, he still comes to your defense. How cute. You did a good job with him. Was it the sweet nothings you whispered into his ear after he fucked you? Told him how much you loved him and that he should never forget it?”

“No,” you choked. “I told him how brilliant he was.”

Clint released your throat and you inhaled a gasp of air like you’d never breathe again. He sneered at Sherlock.

“Oh, that’s even better.”

Sherlock almost narrowed his eyes at you. But instantly knew better than to bring any attention to the words you gasped through your windpipe. 

For, like everything else you said, they were a lie. 

You didn’t mention his brilliance at all.

_How many other lies were hiding under the surface of your marital bliss?_

You rubbed your hand over your throat and shook your head.

“Okay, I will indulge you, husband. But just this once so we can get the fuck out of here. Why anthrax?”

“I wanted to see your little detective scientist in action. Did you like my additions?”

“Staging them as lovers was quite fitting. You adore a twisted love story. Especially when it ends in murder.”

“What can I say? I’m a romantic. You were supposed to take that necklace with you. I didn’t anticipate him dashing in like a hero and locking you out. Wonderful tears though. I almost believed you loved him.”

“Love is for sociopaths and ordinary people.”

“Don’t pretend you’re incapable of loving me. You knew I sent the scorned scientist to the airport that you first arrived at when you got to London. You know me so well. It’s exactly why you shoved your gun in my paramedic’s face and said that you’d speak to his boss. You missed me too.”

“Of course. I had to tell you that I knew it was you.”

“A special type of love language you and I have.”

You rolled your eyes. “Enough with the foreplay. Can we please leave?”

“Very well. What do you want to do with them?”

“We might as well shoot them both.” You rubbed your forehead with your palm.

“Wrong. Just when I think you’re keeping up, you embarrass me. Did you forget the errand you ran for me this morning?”

“Oh, right.”

“We have to keep them around. I could use some leverage against another government lackey.”

“You should have enough dirt on Mycroft Holmes by now.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. 

“Yes, but nothing beats threatening family. Even if they pretend that they’re above sentiment.”

He yanked you back to his side. Your boots scuffed the tile as every muscle in your body tensed under his touch.

“Besides, I’d like him to have to live with himself after this conversation. No better torture than forcing Sherlock Holmes to endure his own incompetence.”

Clint raised his eyebrows as Sherlock’s foot started to twitch.

“Looks like our time is nearly up. I just want to leave him with one last gift.”

He pulled you into a kiss. You dutifully inhaled his toxic concoction of smoke and abuse, never daring to open your eyes for fear of seeing the devil himself if you did.

Sherlock flung himself from his hospital bed. But he landed in a tangled mess of tubes and uncooperative limbs. He growled in anguish as his breath heaved.

You walked over and bent down to pat the side of his face. 

“This game of ours, Mr. Holmes. It bores me.”

Your eyes lingered on his for a brief moment. But before Sherlock could finish asking his pleading, unspoken question, you walked out with Clint’s arm wrapped around your shoulder.

Sherlock dragged himself across the tile to retrieve his bag of clothes. He ripped it open and pulled out his phone.

_Where? SH_

_Outside. Mycroft_


	27. The Friend's Honest Truth

The morning of that horrific day, you woke up alongside the tired sun while tangled in Sherlock’s arms. You took in a luxurious breath and felt the beat of his heart against your back.

When your eyes fluttered open, you tilted your head back and ghosted your finger over the side of his face. You’d never seen him look so peaceful. Maybe you could dare let yourself get used to it.

When you returned your head to your pillow, you furrowed your brow at the open bedroom door. Last you remembered, it was closed when you fell asleep. Professional paranoia getting the better of you, you slowly crept out of bed and walked into the kitchen.

Your heart started pounding erratically when you smelled cigarette smoke and gunpowder. The room started spinning and you stumbled to the table. Seeing the orchid waiting for you next to Sherlock’s microscope, you ran to the sink and vomited as quietly as you could.

You washed down the evidence and tossed the cursed plant into the bin. Breathing heavily, you dashed to John’s laptop and opened up a few suspicious tabs in the browser. You stared into the webcam, stomach twisting in knots.

“We need to talk. Outside. Thirty minutes.”

You were dressed and standing outside the flat in 20 when a black town car pulled up. Biting your lip, you jumped into the backseat and closed your eyes for the entire ride.

“The best way that I can keep them safe is to let him find me. He has to think he’s in control.”

“And what do you expect of my involvement?” Mycroft asked.

“They’ll stay useful to him if he thinks he can use them against you.”

You held out a thumb drive. He raised his eyebrows.

“He’ll think that he’s spying on you. I’m sure you have a separate machine that you could use this on?”

“Of course.”

“If I’m willing to kill them, he’ll think he’s outsmarted me. And they stay alive. Please, will you help me? I-I don’t know who else to go to.”

Mycroft gave you a single nod and relieved you of your software. You breathed a sigh of relief. 

“If I can dare to ask one more thing of you, I need to, I need to leave them—”

“Of course you do.”

“Thank you.”

Now, Sherlock sat with John in the backseat of one of Mycroft’s associates' cars. He thrummed his fingers over the laptop that awaited them.

Rubbing his chin, John groaned.

“Are you sure about this?”

“The evidence is here. Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t know if we can trust a thing she says.”

Sherlock opened the laptop. He started at the blinking password cursor. With a deep breath, he typed away and hit enter. John furrowed his brow. But Sherlock was already double-clicking on the single file on the desktop.

imsorry.mp4

The video opened to show your face, eyes rimmed red with remorse in Mycroft’s office. 

“What the bloody hell happened to her?” John whispered.

“He did.”

Sherlock clicked play.

“Hi boys. If you’re watching this, I’m so sorry. I am so so sorry for everything. For him, for me, for bringing us in your lives. I…”

You bit your lip and glanced down.

“The only way that I could keep you safe was to let him think that he figured it all out. Sherlock, I’m so sorry I punched you. I had to go for either your eye or your teeth to make it seem real and I thought that the eye was better because it could heal? I think there’s a liver waiting for you in the freezer.”

“Well, at least she didn’t plan on hitting me,” John grumbled.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t joke. Not now. Not after...well. Now it’s time to tell you what you both deserve, what you both are owed…the truth. The friend’s honest truth.”

John paused the video and glanced at Sherlock. 

“Are you sure you want to—”

He tapped the space bar.

“I am not a CIA agent. I never was. Clint likes for us to take government covers because people are more trusting. I should have told you. I should have told you that night that you took me as your, your client.”

You took a deep breath.

“But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t trust you. Or maybe. I’m not entirely sure. But I did know that I was, I am, horrifically ashamed of everything that I’ve done as a part of this organization. Everything I’ve done against humanity, against womankind. And I thought you might not help me if you knew how much I was a part of it. And not just for a cover.

“Clint Riley is not an agent either. He is my…” 

You scrunched your face and threw your head into your hands. You groaned before looking back at the camera.

“He’s my husband. He found me right after I emancipated myself. I changed my name to Eve to escape home. He whisked me away in a whirlwind romance. I thought him my savior. But after we got married, he got, well, he got violent.”

Sherlock gripped the side of the laptop even harder as he gritted his teeth.

You closed your eyes for a breath and bit your lip. 

“Then one day, he stopped. He was in a great mood all of a sudden and he was buying me all sorts of jewelry and gifts. I thought that God finally heard my prayers. But I followed him one day and found out that he was freelancing as a broker. He was, he was selling people, women, as a part of this human trafficking ring.

“He saw me and threatened to kill me or sell me along with the girl he had tied in his trunk. But instead of fighting back or saving her or doing anything even remotely heroic or worthy of human decency, I-I helped him.

“And thus began my involvement in the business.”

John covered his mouth with his hand and drew in a deep breath. His stomach churned in knots.

“Clint trained with their former head of operations. He learned every trick of the trade with them. They loved, _loved_ , having a woman to use. And they were even more delighted at my skill of becoming whoever they needed me to be.

“I saw the atrocities they committed against these women. And I promised every one that I damned to a life of living hell that I would take down this operation and end the game for good.

“After a few years, Clint’s mentor met his timely demise. At the end of my gun. But they didn’t know it was me. They have plenty of enemies. With Clint next in line for the empire, it would be easier for me to take them down.

“But I couldn’t just slaughter them all. They grew so fast with a full network of contractors and clients. I grew impatient. I rushed things. And I, I messed up. I tried to cause confusion by creating inconsistencies in the books. I was hoping to free a few women all while leading Clint to chalk it up to a clerical error.

“I covered my tracks along the way and framed someone in middle management. But he still suspected me. So he beat me in front of, well, everyone. And he left me for dead. That part of the story was always true.”

Your eyes flickered downward and you softly shook your head.

“You don’t have to believe me. Honestly, I’d be surprised if you even did at this point. After everything I’ve put you through. But now, I have nothing left to hide. I’m bound to him for eternity to pay for my sins. And, maybe, if God will bless his future victims, She will help me destroy the monster. It’s what I will spend the rest of my short life doing.

“But until then, at least I can die knowing what true friendship feels like. And for that, I am eternally indebted to both of you. My Hardy Boys.”

You reached out to stop the camera from recording. The screen went black.

“Is, is that it?” John furrowed his brow. “She didn’t tell us anything else? About him or where to find him or, or…”

“No,” Sherlock breathed. “Because it was goodbye.”

He slammed the laptop shut and tossed it into the front seat. Bringing his elbows to his knees, Sherlock leaned over and yanked at his hair. After a guttural growl, he threw himself back to the seat and huffed an aching breath. He hung his head back and stared at the ceiling of the car.

“Do you believe her?” John asked. 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“The password.”

“What was it?”

Sherlock turned his head to look at John for the first time since he slapped him awake on the floor of the hospital. He took a deep breath, losing a little bit of hope with the slow exhale.

“Her name, John. It was her real name.”


	28. Judas' Silver

With Sherlock’s arm draped over his shoulders, John trudged up the stairs back to the flat. He knew better than to ask if he would stay at the hospital.

Right as John was about to toss him on the couch, Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“No, not there.”

“Right.”

He dutifully set the detective in his chair before collapsing into his own. With his elbow on the armrest, John put his knuckles under his chin.

“We should do a sweep of the flat,” he murmured.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Sherlock flopped his head to the side to stare at the fireplace. His eyes lazily trailed upwards. But his breath hitched at the sight of a black box wrapped in a scarlet sash. A cream envelope ominously stared back at him from underneath the ribbon.

“John…”

“I’ve got it.”

John plucked the parcel from the mantlepiece and sat back down, furrowing his brow at the curious clanking that echoed from within the demonic box. He tucked his finger into the flap of the envelope to break the golden seal. But he drew in a sharp inhale and paused.

“Do you think—”

“He has no reason to kill us. The anthrax was just...a hoax.”

Pursing his lips, John nodded and ripped open the letter. He swallowed and shook his head as he glanced over the message.

“Read.”

“I don’t think you want to—”

“Read.”

John cleared his throat.

“Unlike you, Holmes, I know when to set boundaries between business and pleasure. So I took the liberty of removing all surveillance equipment from your home. Your suffering would otherwise be far too distracting for me. Your brother, however, will have to start over.

“I look forward to telling Jim at tea this week that you are no virgin. I think he’ll especially like to hear how you…”

John bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.

“Finish it.”

“How you tried to fuck the monster from my wife’s memory. All when you were the one getting played by the creature all along. There’s a reason I named her the Siren. And you fell for her call like a garden variety fool. I’m sorry I had to put her through the misery of your inexperience.”

John blinked a few times.

“If it makes you feel worse, she says that it was worth it. She did it for me. CR.

“P.S. Thank you for stitching up my finest asset, Doctor Watson. I owe you.”

John tossed the parchment aside and shook his head.

“He’s just toying with you. I should just throw this out.”

He held up the box. Sherlock sucked in a breath and his eyes flickered to John.

“Open it.”

“No, I won’t let him continue to destroy you any more than he has.”

“Open it.”

John shook out his shoulders with a grunt. He started untying the ribbon and followed Sherlock’s instructions. 

John plucked one of the many silver coins from the cream colored strips that padded the contents of the box. He narrowed his eyes as he examined it more closely.

“American silver dollars?” 

Sherlock drew in a breath and looked away.

“Count them. There’s thirty.”

John scoffed. 

“Well, he clearly doesn’t know you. You’ve never claimed to be bloody Jesus Christ.”

“But he does want me to know that I’m no savior.”

“You never said you were.”

“What else?”

John bit the inside of his cheek.

“Just another box. For jewelry.”

“Open it.”

He cracked the box open and instantly slammed it shut.

“No, Sherlock. No.”

“Because I called him an addict. I won’t use it anyway.”

“Good. Then you won’t care if I get rid of it.”

“Fine.”

John rifled through the rest of the box. But there was nothing left for him to discover.

“She didn’t leave anything. I thought for sure that she would leave you some secret double meaning trinket or whatever mystery communication style you two have.”

“She did.”

“What was it?”

“She said it was worth it.”

Sherlock swallowed and held John’s gaze. “She said that to both of us.”

Silence lingered in the air as the men stared away from each other. John’s eyes trailed along the outline of your bloodstain while Sherlock’s gaze focused on his bedroom door.

After some time, John cleared his throat.

“We should still do a sweep.”

“You won’t find anything.”

“Alright. But even so, I’ll rest easier if I look myself.”

John rose to his feet and covered his mouth with his hands. He started walking to the stairs. But he spun around and snatched the box from his chair before retreating to his room.

_How long did Mycroft have surveillance equipment in the flat?_

Sherlock tried to enter his mind palace. But it was only a fractured structure of the stronghold it used to be. He mindlessly kicked around some rubble and beams. But eventually, he returned to the real world. 

It would take time to rebuild.

Sherlock staggered to his feet and hobbled to his room. He went straight to his wardrobe and unfurled his scarf from his neck, tucking it away in the box that you would one day reclaim as your own.

He threw himself onto his bed. But he narrowed his eyes at the velvet box on his nightstand. He plucked the card next to it to read.

_In case the Doctor didn’t approve of my prescription. CR_

Snarling, he ripped the paper to pieces and tossed them across the room. Having completed their mission, they fluttered to the floorboards without judgment.

Sherlock yanked his mobile from his pocket and started typing away.

_Need to meet. SH_

He threw his head back to the pillow and stared at the ceiling. But he didn’t receive an instantaneous response as usual. After a moment, he opened his phone again.

_Where are you? SH_

Silence.

_Willing to buy. Just give me a location. SH_

Silence.

With a growl, Sherlock threw his phone across the room. He dragged his hands over his face.

John opened the door.

“Sherlock, did you try reaching out to your dealer? He might—”

“He’s not _my_ dealer. And yes. I’m sure he’s getting paid to not talk to me.”

“Do you have a way of finding him? He could lead us to—”

“No. He always met at separate locations.”

Sherlock threw the secondary box of Dalí’s signature concoction at John. He caught it and furrowed his brow. But pursed his lips and nodded when he realized what was inside.

“Get rid of all of it,” Sherlock commanded. “The cigarettes too. Everything. I want it gone.”

John drew in a deep breath and cast sorrowful eyes on his equally heartbroken friend. He closed the door and did a second sweep of the flat. But this time, it was to remove the secret stashes that he hid in plain sight.

When he returned, John opened his laptop and started typing away. He pursed his lips as he blankly studied the screen. With a nod, he exited the browser and closed the machine.

Sherlock needed to get back on his feet soon.

DAY THREE

“He’s doing better. I think he actually got a few hours of sleep last night,” John whispered through a crack in the door.

He grimaced at Sherlock who was curled up on the floor in front of his chair.

“Okay,” Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Give this to him for me.”

“I will. I’m sure he’ll eat it tonight.”

John relieved her of the mince pie in her hands.

“Good, I’m happy to hear that he has an appetite.”

He smiled. “Yes, thanks to your cooking.”

“Alright, well I’ll leave you to it. You call if there’s—”

“Anything we need.”

“That includes you too.” She pointed a finger at him.

“I know. Thank you.”

John closed the door with a sorrowful smile. He placed the pie in the refrigerator next to an assortment of untouched sandwiches, entrees, and other pies. Before closing the door, John raised his eyebrows at a pile of potatoes that seemed to have a bite missing.

Technically, it wasn’t an entire lie.

He sat in his chair and scratched his head.

“Are you going to sleep somewhere other than the floor or your chair tonight?”

Silence.

John drew in a breath.

“We’ll get another lead soon. We will find her.”

Silence.

“But even if we did find her, you’re in no condition to take on this psychopath. You need to get yourself together.”

Silence.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me? We can’t just go in there and kill him. She’ll never forgive us. We have to be able to take down the whole operation.”

“Shut up.”

With a huff, John threw himself to his feet. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

_Was he doing the right thing?_

“I’m not pushing you because it’s fun. You’re miserable to be around. But if we’re going to get her back, we need you and your brilliant mind at full capacity. Don’t waste too much time wallowing in self pity.”

Sherlock turned his head with a snarl.

“I am NOT wallowing in self pity. I can’t trust anything that I know about her. All of my information is utterly useless. And I will not, will NOT, let her pay for my arrogance in judgment again.”

Without another word, John returned to the table to stare at his laptop. He cradled his chin in his palms and drew in a deep breath. 

_Yes, he was doing the right thing. Right?_

DAY SEVEN

You sipped your tea as Clint rubbed his hand along your bare knee. Smirking over the teacup, you narrowed your eyes at your new guest.

“So this is the legendary Jim Moriarty?”

He bit his lip and smiled. 

“And this is the legendary creature who managed to bed Sherlock Holmes.”

You set your tea down on the table.

“Why are you so obsessed with him?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

You crossed your legs and Clint removed his hand from you. With a devilish grin, you leaned forward to set your elbow on your knee and rest your fist under your chin. Jim raised his eyebrows at your choice in revealing positions—given the low cut of your dress.

“He’s fun to toy with,” you sang. “Make him squirm and think he’s so brilliant. Only to tear everything away from him.”

“Finally, someone who understands me,” Jim sneered.

Clint rested his hand on your shoulder to force you backward. You crossed your arms, never breaking eye contact with Jim.

“Now children,” Clint chided, “we’ll have none of that here.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“The only reason another man gets to touch her is if it serves me.”

Jim raised his hands in defense.

“Who said you wouldn’t benefit? Perhaps I’m interested in...her services.” He winked at you.

You bit your lip and smiled. Your eyes darted to Clint to gauge his reaction.

“We’re done tormenting Sherlock Holmes. We have more...profitable business to attend to here.”

Jim smirked. 

“Ah yes, Ashworth’s crew. I’m not surprised he lost his head. He never had it in him. Although I hear his next in line is even more brainless. You’ll have no issue taking over their operation.”

He leaned forward and glanced between you both.

“I am very interested in a future partnership.”

Clint held up his hand and shook his head.

“Now, Jim. You should know better than to mix business and pleasure. This is a friendly catch up. We’ll arrange a separate meeting to discuss upcoming projects.”

Jim nodded and leaned back in his seat.

“You were always a stickler for rules, Riley. You should try getting messy sometime.”

“Like you do? Chasing a child around the city? It’s such a waste of your good talents. I know you must be hemorrhaging money. All for a game of cat and mouse?”

“Some things,” he raised his eyebrows, “are worth more than money.”

Jim took a bite out of an apple and snickered.

“Besides,” he swallowed, “not all of us are blessed with a woman who can fuck Sherlock Holmes and break his heart on any given Tuesday. If I had one too, I might not have to spend so much money tormenting him. 

“But then again...you’re the one who bought Irene Adler’s home. Paid a small fortune for this place. Who's paying to torment now?”

You furrowed your brow.

“It’s a beautiful neighborhood,” Clint sneered.

“Irene? Who’s Irene?” 

Your eyes flickered between them. Jim smirked.

“He never told you?”

“It wasn’t impo—”

“Not you, Clint. Sherlock.”

You straightened your spine on the couch and played with your necklace. Raising an eyebrow, you licked your lips.

“Enlighten me, Jim.”

“Well, I helped her learn a trick or two about playing the Holmes boys. You weren’t the first to toy your way into the baby’s heart. She almost got away with blackmailing the entire British nation because of it. But she made the fatal mistake of falling for him. Such a waste.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “She sounds like she was out of her depth.”

Clint wrapped his arm around your shoulder and squeezed.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what you get from a sex worker,” Jim snickered.

“Don’t insult me, Jim. It’s impolite.”

“Oh, no. Allow me to apologize. I mean no offense. You are no prostitute. Rather, you have a very unique set of skills that span beyond selling your body for money or information or power.”

Clint narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side.

“And what would you classify her skillset as?”

“Shapeshifting.” He smirked. “Quite the magic trick.”

Clint kissed your temple as you eyed Jim.

“And what became of poor Irene?” you sang.

“Her incompetence finally caught up with her. She got captured by a terrorist cell and Sherlock, being the good little angel that he is, saved her.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Don’t let me disappoint you in thinking there’s a happy ending,” Jim chuckled. 

“I sent my men to take care of her the moment she landed on American soil. Even nabbed her mobile in case I want to...just tickle him the right way.”

Jim pulled out Irene’s phone from his jacket pocket with a sneer.

You looked up at the ceiling and laughed.

“And he has no clue what you did to his twisted lover? Brilliant.”

“I mean,” he shrugged, “it was mutually beneficial. For me and me. Couldn’t let her poor form influence my reputation. She damaged my success rate.”

“So you can think like a businessman, Jim.” Clint pointed a finger.

He raised his palms in the air.

“You got me.”

You chuckled and leaned back in your seat.

“You two have more in common than you think. Running criminal empires by day and torturing Sherlock Holmes on the side. Even when he doesn’t know it. You’re playing him.”

Clint leaned in and nipped your neck right below your ear.

“And what does that make you, my love? I should say you’re one of us.”

Jim frowned and shook his head.

“Nah, my criminal empire is the side business. I use it to fund my playtime.”

You snapped your finger and pointed at him. 

“Now, I like him! Maybe Jim and I are actually the ones who are most alike.”

Clint scowled in reply.

“Oh, husband. It’s no reason to be jealous. My love for you will never be tainted. But it does make me happy to have a friend...may I call us friends now?”

Jim smirked and nodded.

“It makes me happy to have a friend who enjoys manipulation and playtime as much as I do. You work too much sometimes. And I would never ask you to change that. But sometimes a woman needs to torture a soul. And not for the money. Just for fun.”

“I know,” Clint nodded. “You deserve some fun.”

He brushed his hand over your cheek to draw you into a kiss. What he didn’t notice was the wink you gave to Jim before he opened his eyes. You placed your hand on his chest to pull away.

“Well, my beautiful, criminally seductive men. I best be off to clean my firearms. But continue to enjoy each other’s company while I’m gone.”

You brushed off your dress when you popped back to your feet. Clint’s eyes lingered on you as you departed with the click of your heels. 

“You picked a good woman, Riley.”

“That I did.”

In the washroom, you slashed cool water on your face and took a deep breath. 

No, you could not save Sherlock from the torture that awaited him. But you certainly could use his tormentors to build him back up.

_After all, that’s what friends are for, right?_


	29. You're a Liar, Doctor Watson

DAY EIGHT

That morning, John grimaced as he looked at Sherlock. Curled up in his chair with his mouth hanging open on the armrest, Sherlock scrunched his face before grumbling and turning around.

Bringing his attention back to his tea, John poured hot water over the teabag. He continued to mash the bag until the water was darkened to his desired shade. After tossing the used up leaves in the bin, he watched the milk swirl into his caffeinated glory.

Your voice echoed in his mind.

_ Do you get nonfat to stay healthy? Or whole? _

_ When he wakes up and badgers you for a cup of tea. Be patient with his needy ass.  _

_...because it’s not about the milk. _

John blinked a few times as his eyes went wide. The carton of milk dipped in his hand and emptied its remaining contents all over the counter and floor. He yanked it back upright and shook his head.

“She, she was telling the truth,” he muttered under his breath.

Sherlock rolled over and lazily opened his eyes. He cocked an eyebrow at the mess.

“Which part?”

John spun around with his jaw hanging open.

“The, the video. She behaved that way to help us. To make sure he wouldn’t kill us.”

“Of course.”

Sherlock sat upright and tilted his head to the side.

“You didn’t believe her?”

“I wasn’t sure what to believe.”

“And now that you do?”

“I, er, well, it’s just…” He glanced at the milk on the floor and back to Sherlock. “You haven’t been, um, haven’t…”

“The point, John. Get to the point.”

“If you could find her, what would you do?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“What do you know?”

“No, no. If you could find her, what would you do?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“You’ve been sitting on this for over a week and you don’t know?”

“For any given solution that I extrapolate, all I can see are the mistakes I’ll make.”

Sherlock swallowed. His eyes flickered from the floor and back to John.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

John waved his hand. “Ah, it’s nothing.”

“Don’t play Eve. What are you hiding?”

John bit his lip and started cleaning the floor with a nearby rag. Sherlock grit his teeth and took a step forward. He stared at John. But his friend refused to make eye contact.

Sherlock grabbed John by the front of his shirt and brought his face close to his.

“Where is she? How long have you known?” 

John shook his head. 

“I don’t know!”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked as he growled.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“I just, I just thought about reaching out to Moriarty. He might be able to help.”

Sherlock flung John from his grasp. He threw his hands into his hair and turned his back on his friend. Shaking his head, he chuckled lowly before spinning back around.

“What kind of moronic idea is that?”

“I know. It was stupid of me.”

“Finally. You’re making sense.”

John put his hands on his hips and grit his teeth.

“You are a complete arsehole. Why don’t you just have a smoke and put us both out of our misery?”

Sherlock glared at him before looking away. He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m never smoking again.”

John sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He finished cleaning up the remaining milk. When he looked back up, Sherlock was curled up in his chair with his back to him once again. 

John knew better than to hold his breath for an apology. He’d die of asphyxiation. 

He threw on his coat and walked to the door.

“Where are you going,” Sherlock grumbled without moving.

“I need to get more milk.”

_ Yes. He was doing the right thing. _

Once he was on Baker Street, John pulled out his mobile to send a text.

_ Can you make an untraceable delivery? _

He tapped his foot as he waited for the reply.

_ I’m not your errand boy. Mycroft _

_ Please. I need your help. I just need to send a message. _

_ One time. Where? _

You were engrossed in a book when Clint started shouting from the front door.

“For the last time, Irene Adler does not live here anymore! Now get out of here and take your crates with you before I contact your supervisor. Who do you work for?”

“Ms. Adler had us deliver these every other week. I’m new on the route. I’m just doing my job, sir. Please sign for them.”

“What the fuck does a person do with five crates of milk?”

You set down your book and dashed to the door. Placing your hand on Clint’s back, you tilted your head to see a courier with a clipboard.

“Let me take care of this for you?” You nodded to your husband. “She was into some  _ weird _ stuff. Probably a sex thing we don’t want to know about.”

Clint rolled his eyes and stomped off. You raised your eyebrows at the man and took the clipboard from him.

“I just need a signature,” he said.

Your eyes darted all over the form. Finally making their way to the bottom, your breath hitched at the text below the signature line.

_If your delivery is_ _dangerously_ _close to spoiling, please contact the website._

You nodded and looked back at the delivery boy.

“I’m sorry. But Ms. Adler no longer lives here. You’ll have to take it all back.”

“But—”

His jaw snapped shut when you started waving goodbye with your gun as you closed the door. You walked back into your new sitting room to see Clint scrutinizing your book.

“Frankenstein? Don’t you get enough time with monsters?”

You plucked it from his hands.

“What can I say? I have a type.” You wiggled your eyebrows. “Although you’re much prettier than a mangled corpse, husband.”

“If that’s true, perhaps you’ll consider gracing our bed tonight?”

“I still need time.”

“I’m getting impatient.”

“I know. And I know better than to try that razor-thin patience of yours. Don’t worry. But I can only sleep in the spare bedroom. Would you rather me next to you or rested? Get me too sleep deprived and I might accidentally shoot you should we have an intruder.”

“You’re so cute when you threaten me.”

“I know. Hopeless, aren’t I?”

“Quite. I slowed things down to keep an eye on you. But it’s time to get back to work. Will a visit from your new friend help you to  _ acclimate _ to our new home? ”

You smirked. “Actually, yes. Reach out to him.”

He gave you a nod before returning to his office.

Jim arrived within ten minutes. He plopped next to you on the couch and raised an eyebrow at your book.

“Feeling lonely?”

“No, just longing for something to burn.” You closed the book and looked at him. “I see that locked doors don’t stop you.”

“Nothing ever does.” He leaned in. “Especially when I’m properly motivated.”

“You evaded the contact plates. I was looking forward to you getting tranquilized.”

He waved his finger at you. “I took note of your walking patterns last time.”

“Well done.” You smirked.

“Alright, children.” Clint entered the sitting room and threw on his coat. “I have a meeting with one of William’s associates. I expect you both to perfectly misbehave while I’m gone.”

You beamed at him. “Enjoy yourself. If you can avoid it, try not to trail blood all over the entryway when you get home.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d come with me.”

“You know my interrogation techniques are far too clean for your taste. I can tell it’s been a while since you sliced into someone’s flesh. Show him a good time.”

Clint smirked and nodded to Jim. “We’ll talk business when I return.”

“I look forward to it.”

Clint armed the entrance before leaving. When the door latched shut, you stood up and watched him enter his car from the window.

“Doesn’t have a driver. I’m surprised,” Jim murmured from behind you.

“Only the month he had a bomber after him. Always had a decoy enter and start the car for him. You wouldn’t know how many of those coats I had to buy.”

“Do you love him?”

“Considering I’m the only one capable of some sense of love, yes. I do for the both of us.”

“Not Clint, Eve. Sherlock.”

You turned around and narrowed your eyes at him.

“He’s a martyr masquerading as an unfeeling genius. What’s there to love? His bleeding heart?”

Jim shrugged. “Depends on the type of bleeding.”

“I prefer the emotional over the physical. It lasts longer.” You chuckled. “And you don’t need a cardiologist to keep bringing him back to life.”

He examined your face with a curious gaze. After a moment, Jim reached out to stroke the side of your face. But you latched your hand to his wrist and twisted his arm outward. He hissed, but maintained eye contact with you.

“Don’t mistake my fliration for betrayal, Jim. My loyalties will always lie with my husband. No matter who’s bed I sleep in.”

You raised your eyebrows and twisted harder. His gaze intensified.

“Touch me again and I will shoot you between the eyes. Deny the world of that open casket I know you’re dying for.”

The corner of his lip upturned in a sneer.

“Where have you been all my life?”

You released him with a hard expression carved across your face. He shook out his arm and rubbed his fingers over his wrist.

“Escorting women to the gates of hell with a smile.” You glared at him.

“What does he love most about you?”

“Loved. I was nothing more than a challenge. One that he lost.”

“Oh, Eve. Your humility bores me. Tell me what you did to him.”

You fiddled with your necklace. Biting your lip, you glanced to the side before returning your eyes to Jim. He mirrored the smirk that spread across your lips.

“I appealed to his need to be a savior. I became the thing that he most wanted. A chance at love and deliverance from the social exile he created for himself. 

“No one wants to be alone, Jim. Not even high functioning sociopaths. Or you for that matter. Isn’t that why you torment him? For the company of someone who can, if not match, at least challenge your intellect?”

“Don’t insult me, Eve. It’s impolite.”

You grinned. “Yes, you are much more my husband’s breed of clinical insanity.”

“Thank you.”

You started walking away from the window, given that the only subject of interest was long gone to torment a helpless soul. 

But Jim grabbed your wrist to spin you around. He seized your face in his hands, bringing your lips a breath away from his.

“What did it feel like? To break his heart?”

“Jealous? It’s unbecoming of you.” You narrowed your eyes. “But I can assure you, the feeling of his heart turning to ash in my palm...well, let’s just say that ambrosia could never taste so good.”

“Pretend to love me. It will rip through every fiber of his being. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want a taste of what he got from you. It’s...intoxicating.”

“Oh, Jim. What did I say,” you growled, “about putting your hands on me.”

You shoved him away from you and aimed your gun between his eyes. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. Then Jim stepped forward and pressed his forehead to the barrel of your gun. He outstretched his arms and smirked.

“I love a woman who delivers.”

“You are one twisted fuck, Jim Moriarty.”

“Barely friends and you already know me so well.” He licked his lips. “I hope I never get to feel the same about you.”

You removed your gun from his face and tilted your head to the side.

“Mmm, don’t go soft on me now, Eve,” he moaned. “Tell me, tell me you’ll break his heart with me. I’ve been playing alone for so long. Relieve me of my suffering.”

You gritted your teeth and bore your eyes into his.

“No.”

He scrunched his face and balled his hands into fists.

“Just when you were getting  _ interesting! _ You make the same stupid mistake as—”

You struck him across the face with the butt of your gun. Jim stumbled backward. Rubbing his cheek, he grinned at you.

“Don’t make arrogant assumptions, Jim,” you snarled. “You’re smarter than that. Or are you here to disappoint me also?”

“Oh, I assure you. I  _ do not _ disappoint.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” 

You slid your gun into its holster around your thigh. 

“I don’t want to break his heart because I’ve already done it. If you want to maintain my interest, eviscerate a different part of the man. Destroy his belief system, everything he holds sacred, his trust in himself, make the people he loves bleed for his mistakes.”

You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“Matters of the heart are childish, Jim. If you want to play together, you’re going to have to get far more creative.”

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

“My muse, how I’ve ached for you.”

“Even if you did have a way to maintain my interest in tormenting Sherlock Holmes, you couldn’t do anything right now.”

“Because he’s already broken,” he chuckled.

“Exactly. Why kick a broken heart?”

“Because it’s fun.”

“Don’t settle. Expand your mind. Wouldn’t it be more satisfying to build him back up again? Help him restore his faith in his brilliant intellect? Make him believe that he’s vanquished the dragon of his heartbreak?”

The corner of Jim’s mouth upturned into a sneer.

“Only to rip him apart piece by piece.”

“And the best part will be when—”

“He has to credit all of his faith in himself... _ to me. _ ” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or us? If I’ve properly captured your interest.”

“You’ll never capture a single piece of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of caging such a violent flame. You were put on this earth just to burn it to the ground.”

“Flattery won’t win you any points with me. But, yes. I’m intrigued.”

“Ready to play?”

“Yes, Jim Moriarty.” You narrowed your eyes. “The game is on.”

When he returned home, Clint was clean of all evidence of his earlier activities.

“Thank you.” You smiled at him.

“I’m trying to build your trust again.”

“I know you’re not doing it because you care.”

“Of course not.”

“But I admit that it is working. I will be ready to rejoin the operation soon.”

He nodded and glanced at Jim.

“Ready to talk business now that playtime is over?”

Jim smirked. “Absolutely.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Don’t have too much fun while I’m gone.”

You shook your head. 

“Not a thing to worry about. I’ll just check in on them to see what we can use. Easy to find someone’s vulnerabilities when you blog your adventures across the internet.”

“They do make it hopelessly easy?”

“Yes, they’re quite desperate for attention.”

Clint cleared his throat. “Well, I’m happy you have someone to occupy your spare time instead of planning hopeless murder attempts against me. But let’s get back to business.”

“Business, business. It's always the same with you, Riley. I look forward to the day that you surprise me," Jim sang.

“I feel the same way about you and your callings to chaos. And yet, here we are.”

He gestured to his office. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

Clint led them to his office. But not before Jim snuck a wink at you before walking away.

You opened the spare laptop and followed the given protocols to conceal your location. When you arrived on John’s blog, you raised your eyebrows at the new post about the anthrax attack.

“Didn’t think you’d be writing, John,” you muttered under your breath.

_ In a great battle of wits, with dwindling time and ample isolation, Sherlock discovered the antitoxin; successfully saving not only himself, but the three remaining victims of the scorned bacteriologist. _

_ Once again, proving to all of us that no weapon—be it biological, chemical, intellectual, or matter of the heart—can defeat the will of Sherlock Holmes. For no matter how much life might cycle the man through the rings of Hell, he will always get back up and outsmart even the Devil himself. _

You bit your lip and smiled.

At the bottom of the post, you read the various comments and smirked.

_ “Omg! Is he okay?? When will he be able to go on new cases?” _

_ “How many other biological weapons did he stop that you AREN’T telling us about?” _

_ “Braaaaaingasming!” _

You typed a comment under the guest username EffiencyTracker.

_ YES! Of course Sherlock will always save the day! I speak for his many fans when I say that we all hope he rests after this attack!! He shouldn’t go looking for trouble. Dr. Watson, you’ll watch over him, right? Love your blog!  _

You hit enter and smiled at the confirmation message that your comment would post after moderation. With a deep breath, you scrubbed your history clean. Fortunately for you, your husband’s due diligence was working in your favor for once.

John gasped a sigh of relief when your comment arrived in his inbox. He offered a silent prayer to his past self for not simply removing your GPS tracker from your palm. But instead, he went above and beyond the call of duty and sent Sherlock to grab more gauze. 

When the detective was out of sight, he replanted your tracker in a more discrete and sustainable location while you were open on the sitting room floor. At the time, you only trusted one person on Earth. And he took that as his responsibility to always know where you were.

Turns out, John Watson was the best liar of 221B Baker Street.

He never needed your training to become a spy.


	30. Think Like Sherlock Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration for the first portion of this chapter is [Hearts on Fire (Acoustic) by Gavin James.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8DxUvRVjr-k)

DAY NINE

Sitting across from Sherlock, John breathed a sigh of relief when the detective finally fell asleep in his chair. John lazily rose to his feet and trotted upstairs to get some rest himself.

Sherlock entered his dream state with a sharp pain in his neck. You were sitting in John’s chair and staring at him. He furrowed his brow. 

But you threw yourself to the floor in front of him. You wrapped your arms around his knee and rested your head in his lap.

“I-I didn’t mean any of it,” you whimpered.

“What?”

“He’s a monster and he took me from you. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Where are you?”

“You already know where I am. We don’t have much time.”

He blinked rapidly as the room started spinning. Sherlock’s hand danced through the air and eventually found the side of your face. He tilted your chin so he could take in the dimming light of your sad eyes.

“Wher-what?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

The dream faded into darkness.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he scrambled to find a pen and paper. His body moved like he was wading through a pool of honey. 

Finally, he managed to find a few scraps on the table next to John’s laptop. He tried to remember what his vision of you said. 

_I didn’t. I didn’t mean. Mean it? Mean any of it?_

The words were disappearing as fast as he could remember them. He blinked firmly and scrunched his face. 

Word, every word, he needed every word. Exactly as you laid it out for him. Because, with you, he needed precision to find the one truth in a sea of...

“LIES!” he screamed.

John came running down the stairs and Sherlock shoved a helpless pile of paper and notes off the table. John plucked his laptop from the danger zone to ensure it wouldn’t become part of the collateral damage.

“What happened?” John asked.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. I can’t retain a thing.”

Sherlock lied down on the floor in front of his chair. John shook his head and took his laptop to his room—hating the sight of Sherlock burying his face in his hands and shaking his head.

DAY TEN

Sherlock’s mind called him into the dreamy waters of sleep with a sharp pang and the feeling of your lips on his. Leaning back in his chair, he inhaled your kiss as if he’d never taste oxygen again. 

You straddled his lap as he tangled his fingers into your hair. His arms enveloped your back in a futile attempt to protect you from disappearing.

“Where are you?” he breathed. “Did he take you back to America?”

“You already know where I am. You just have to answer the question. Who am I?”

His mind felt like he was swimming through a watery version of reality. Sherlock struggled to maintain focus. 

He wanted to remember this dream. But then again, maybe it was really a nightmare if he’d only wake up without you again.

“I-I don’t know. I never knew. Tell me. Just tell me.”

“You have to figure it out for yourself.”

“I can’t. I’ve proven that I can’t.”

You leaned in and peppered kisses along his neck. His heart ached at the feeling as he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

“It won’t matter unless you see it for yourself,” you murmured into him.

“Why are you here?”

You trailed soft kisses along his jawline until your lips reunited. Losing his grip on this distorted hallucination, his mind clawed to grasp the feeling of your skin on his—for you would evaporate at any moment.

You parted your lips from his just enough for your final message.

“It’s not goodbye without one last kiss.”

Sherlock tried to hold onto you with all his might, but Morpheus had other plans for him. His eyelids fluttered closed to the hazy sight of you staring into his eyes—your face dimmed along with the glow of the moonlight.

When John walked downstairs to make his morning tea, Sherlock jolted awake and collapsed to the floor. John rushed over to help him up. But Sherlock swatted his hand away and shook his head. 

His body, weighed down by the heartbreak of the previous evening, struggled to keep up with his desire for precise movement.

Sherlock finally managed to sit on the edge of his chair. He pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead and gritted his teeth.

“She’s trying to tell me something and I-I can’t access ANYTHING!”

“She-she’s talking to you?”

Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.

“A dream, John. In a dream. If she was communicating with me in, in this world,” he waved his hand in the air with a flourish, “I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you.”

“Oh, well that just gives me the warm and fuzzies.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples.

“My subconscious is trying to compensate for my lack of cognizant clarity. If I could just FOCUS!”

He furrowed his brow.

“It’s here. It’s all here. But I-I…”

He leaped to his feet and balled his hands into fists.

“YOU SAID WE WERE DONE! YOU SAID WE WERE DONE WITH THE GAMES! WHY WON’T YOU JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!”

Chest heaving with heartbreak, Sherlock slammed his eyes shut before hanging his head in defeat. He hissed an exhale through clenched teeth before looking back at John with mist rimming his eyes.

“She’s, she’s not here long enough for me to retain anything.”

John swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Maybe it’s because you’re in no condition to make her stay.”

Sherlock bore his eyes into John’s—misguided rage gently burning behind them. John leaned on the counter and crossed his arms.

“Look at yourself. You’re a bloody mess. You’ve been sleeping in that damn chair, if at all. You hardly eat. You haven’t left the flat. Of course your mind is shot.”

Sherlock’s upper lip twitched as he clenched his jaw. But John only raised his eyebrows—unperturbed by the detective’s fury.

“I’m still working the case. I’ve been working it,” John continued. He pointed a finger at Sherlock. “But you, well, you’re a wreck. And if you want any chance against this psychopath who took her, then you need to get yourself together.”

“Just what have you been doing? Trying to contact Jim Moriarty?” Sherlock mocked.

“No, I’ve been researching everyone in that criminal network she listed out.”

“She burned it all.”

“Yes, because she was afraid he’d come here, see that she gave us all that information, and it would blow her cover with him. But that didn’t stop me from taking a photo before you both tore it all down.”

“What did you find?”

“I started with the rest of the doctors. Unfortunately, er, or is it fortunately? I don’t know the rest of them. But I reached out to some old contacts for more...no, this isn't about…”

John closed his eyes and shook his head. He walked over and stood in front of Sherlock.

“Are you ready to get back in the game? Because the only way we’re going to not just get her back, but actually stop this maniac is with you. And not by thinking like a brokenhearted man, a businessman, or even a psychopath.”

With a deep breath, John stared down the detective.

“Are you ready to start thinking like Sherlock Holmes again?”

Sherlock’s upper lip twitched. He stomped to his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

Hanging his head back, John let out the breath he was holding in. 

It was the first time Sherlock was in his room since your departure.

Progress.

DAY TWELVE

You taunted Sherlock’s dreams that night by brushing your nose along the back of his neck. Offering him a gesture of softness after the sharp pain that announced your presence.

You nipped at his ear and trailed kisses down his neck. He turned around and latched his palms to the side of your face with all the strength he could gather.

“Back in bed I see.” You stroked the side of his face with the back of your hand.

“Don’t go.”

“I have to. I don’t belong to you. Never did.”

“I never wanted to own you.”

You pulled on the front of his shirt to bring him into a kiss. He furrowed his brow, desperate to commit the softness of your lips—anything, any part of you—to memory.

“Always so gentle with me. Like the others never were.”

“Where are you?”

“You already know where I am. You just have to answer the question.”

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and brought his lips to yours. He fisted the back of your shirt to bring you closer, closer, closer to him. 

_Why? Why was it that no matter how hard he held on, you always disappeared?_

“Who am I?” you breathed onto his lips.

“Eve.”

“Who am I?”

He whispered your name.

“Mr. Holmes, who am I?”

“I don’t care who you are or what you call yourself. Just don’t go. Please don’t go.”

You tucked your nose behind his ear and gently pressed your lips to his skin. You swung your knee over his waist. He followed your lead and leaned back so you could position yourself on top of him.

After a few devoted kisses down his neck, you eventually made your way to the collar of his shirt. You pulled down and sank your teeth into his skin right below his clavicle.

He released a sharp exhale as his head fell back to the pillow. After a hard swallow, he tangled his fingers into your hair and brought you up to kiss him. But you tilted your chin upward to deny him the satisfaction.

You pressed your forehead against his.

“Tell me where you are. Just tell me,” he pleaded.

“We don’t have much time.”

“Don’t, no. Don’t leave me again.”

You elevated yourself upright and stroked the side of his face with your fingertips. Sherlock blinked firmly and knit his brows together in pained confusion. 

Trying, trying, trying to retain the vision of your face.

“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock must be paying for his crimes. For his dream descended into darkness once again.

He woke up, just like the day you left, to an empty bed.

Heart aching to cleanse himself of his sins, Sherlock drew in a deep breath and sulked to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water and tossed his shirt into the corner.

Dragging his hands over his face, he finally faced himself in the mirror after nearly two weeks of not being able to look at himself.

God must have heard his prayers. Because Sherlock’s eyes blew wide open as the sight of gentle bruising around his collarbone.

Right where you kissed him.

In his, certainly not, a dream.

“JOHN!” he bellowed before dashing out to the sitting room.

Leaning over your kitchen island, Jim scrolled through his phone and snickered.

“Even after everything you did to the boy wonder, he’s still hopelessly in love with you. Is it because he’s that desperate for what he can’t have? Or was the sex that good?”

“I don’t fuck and tell, Jim. It’s bad for business. No matter how much you’re dying for the sordid details.”

“Don’t test my death wish, Eve. You don’t know how much I’d put on the line to get inside your…”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Mind,” he snickered. “You’ll tell me someday.”

“Perhaps.”

“How long will it take him to figure it out? I adored the ‘ _who am I’_ line. Testing his former love?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not measuring his heart. I’m challenging his body. He should have recognized the effects of the drug that she used on him. That _was_ the correct concoction you gave me?”

“Yes, adjusted for your purposes and timeline. I had to know what it was after I saw the photos of him fumbling around like a drooling mess. I can show you if you’d like.”

You laughed and picked up your book.

“What? What is it?” Jim asked.

Playing with your necklace, you continued to stare at the page. He narrowed his eyes at you.

“You, you miss him. You miss Sherlock. I can see it. Tell me, Eve. Are your loyalties really as strong as you claim? Because if not—”

“Of course I miss him, Jim,” you growled.

He tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows. Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp exhale and set your book down once again.

“I thought you of all people would understand how addicting it can be to torture the man. I got a fix last night and I’m already itching for another. Unlike my dear husband, my abilities to set boundaries around my pleasure are...weaker.”

“I think you’re more like him than you think.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Not Sherlock, Eve. Clint.”

“Well, that’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me, Jim. Thank you.”

He smirked. 

“I still wish that you let me bug the flat. I would have loooved to have heard his sad cries when he woke up and you weren’t there.”

He mimicked a whimpering child and you scoffed.

“Clint was adamant about not having any surveillance equipment in their home. It’s for his own good and I know better than to defy his orders. We’re lucky he let me even visit our victim in the first place. Only because you got to listen in and I agreed to get back to work once we’re done.”

“He doesn’t trust you with him? So you two are having issues. I thought I picked up on—”

“No, he doesn’t trust me with me. The state of our marriage is fine and frankly none of your business. 

“I just have a tendency to, well, push boundaries. Things get out of hand if I’m operating solo. Even though you’re a chaotic mess, having someone on the other line always reels me in.”

Jim snickered. “A little bit of mess is nothing to be afraid of. Especially when it comes to you.”

“No, but when it comes to anything _but_ the human body, my dear husband loves clean execution. I wouldn't dare put him at more risk than he already is.”

“How did he manage to get you?”

“The Devil knew what he was doing when he bound us together.”

Tracing his hand along the island, Jim walked over and sat next to you. He propped his elbow on the countertop and rested his chin in his palm.

“And what are you going to do when the poor angel baby _does_ figure it all out?”

“He’s going to find me bloody in the entryway.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. You snickered.

“I’ll look like I’m on death’s doorstep. And that’s when you, my good friend, will tranquilize him.”

“I can think of much more fun things to shoot him with.”

“I’m not after his body. I’m after his mind.”

You wiggled your eyebrows.

“After he and the dear doctor are unconscious, we haul them back to Baker Street. They’ll be horrified. Did they let me die? They’ll have to return to my home only to find me back from the dead. But not as the dear Eve they knew and loved. 

“No, I’ll be dressed in entirely different attire. Maybe a nun? Something disturbingly pure. Tell them I have no idea who they are. He’ll make his advances, I’ll scream, call the police. Tell them I’ve been seeing him to help soothe his aching heart over his dead lover. And, oh my, he’s finally cracked. It’ll be delightful chaos.”

Jim snickered. “And what of me?”

“The whole public knows your criminally seductive face. But I’m sure with a little creativity we can cast you in just the right part.”

You winked at him.

“My muse,” he sang. “Mind fucking Sherlock Holmes to insanity. What will be left of him after that?”

“Well, I carved up his heart and his mind. So that leaves his body to you.” You shrugged. “Maybe you can finally answer those sex questions for yourself.”

“I think I’d rather receive those answers from someone else.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Clint finally admitted that buying this particular home put us at unnecessary risk with a heartbroken pseudo-genius looking for me. So when I’m done destroying his sanity, we’ll move somewhere more discrete.”

“And you’ll be done with me?”

You put your hand over your chest in feigned offense.

“Leave behind the legendary Jim Moriarty? It would be a crime against crime. No, my friend. Our friendship goes wherever I go. I’ll escort you to the gates of hell myself.”

“Don’t tease.”

“Trust me, Jim. I _am_ a woman who delivers.”

You leaned in to whisper in his ear. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end to salute the warmth of your breath.

“The Devil himself will spit on your face in commemoration of your crimes against humanity.”

“Sherlock Holmes only gets you in his dreams. All while I get the real thing.”

He leaned back and sneered.

“Life _is_ a beautiful, wretched thing.”


	31. All the King's Horses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL ABUSE.

The night of your final visit to Sherlock, you snuck out of 221B when he was carefully swaddled in the tresses of sleep. Breath heaving and heart quivering, you tossed yourself into the passenger seat of Jim’s taxi.

“Pathetic, he is utterly pathetic. I see why you wanted to build him back up because this is just too easy. Even if it is,” he drew in a sharp inhale, “angelic fun.”

You buried your face in your hands and sobbed. Your shoulders shook with the force of a woman with no place to call home. Rocking back and forth, you gasped for air between heartbroken cries as the ashes of your long lost desires fluttered to the ground.

Jim furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side.

“Are you...are you actually…”

Your shoulders shivered as your whimpers rolled into a low, haunted laugh. Tears painted across your face as the evidence you could only hope to hide in plain sight, you snapped your head up to flash a devilish grin to your partner in crime. 

He narrowed his eyes, trying to decode your shameless and equally shameful display of emotion.

“You said you wanted to know what I did to him, Jim. Well, this is it. Look at me. Don’t you want to save me?”

“You’re repulsive.”

You wiped the tears from your cheeks and threw yourself back into your seat. Chuckling to yourself, you shook your head. You rested it to the side to give him a sideways glance.

“He couldn’t help but think he was saving the hopeless mess before you. When really, he’s the one who’s hopeless. He was doomed the moment I walked into his life.”

Jim snickered and slammed the accelerator, ripping you away from the only place on earth you truly wanted to be.

“You are one twisted woman, Eve Riley.”

“No, no.” You shuddered then cleared your throat, adjusting your voice to speak in sorrowful squeaks. “I’m Sherlock Holmes’ long lost love.”

Maybe this is why you wrapped everything in lies. The truth was too much to bear all by itself.

Jim smacked the steering wheel and cackled at the cracks in your voice. Your husband didn’t deserve your shredded heart.

You spent the rest of the ride steadying your breath and shoving Sherlock from your mind. You cast him out with sinful laughs, playful mockery, and flirtation with his great adversary. With no space left for him in your psyche, he had nowhere else to go other than descending into the caverns of your heart.

And you begged him.

Please, please don’t go.

The sun rose as you continued Frankenstein at your kitchen island. The dear creature only ever wanted to be loved by his creator. Good thing, for the sake of your aching heart, you had no earthly idea what that felt like.

Jim attempted to ransack your refrigerator. But, deeming nothing worthy of his acquired taste, he settled for stalking the baby angels on his phone. 

He replayed Sherlock’s pitiful whispers in his mind. Snickering to himself, he gave your performance a standing ovation from both himself and Richard Brook. 

Riley was right. Torture was utterly consuming. 

When you told Jim your plans to devour Sherlock’s faith in all that he held dear, a holy shiver snaked up his spine. He was certain it was delivered from Satan himself.

“The whole public knows your criminally seductive face. But I’m sure with a little creativity we can cast you in just the right part.”

You winked at him. Jim’s aching heart fluttered at the sight.

Surely, the Devil had no idea what he was doing when he matched you with Clint Riley. 

For Jim Moriarty didn’t need to separate business from pleasure. Only a weak man needed the rigidity of boundaries to keep himself focused. But a truly inspired businessman, well, he knew that play was the path to power. 

“When I’m done destroying his sanity," you said, "we’ll move somewhere more discrete.”

_And you’ll be put back to work by your husband. Such a waste. A fire is only as beautiful as the landscape it gets to burn._

“And you’ll be done with me?”

“No, my friend. Our friendship goes wherever I go. I’ll escort you to the gates of hell myself.”

Jim prayed to anyone listening that you would be the death of him. If only he saw Sherlock’s jaw tick in his sleep. He might have been more careful in which celestial creatures he entrusted his desires.

You sneered at the thought. “The Devil himself will spit on your face in commemoration of your crimes against humanity.”

Jim would never be so ordinary as to consider himself your savior. But he could certainly deliver you from your prison of boredom. For you were lost at sea with nothing to interest you except for the dull creature you called your dearly departed, no, beloved husband. 

“Sherlock Holmes only gets you in his dreams. All while I get the real thing.”

Jim spent years chasing the emotion-ridden detective in hopes of a worthy adversary. Only to be disappointed by the fool over and over again.

Perhaps he didn’t need a hero or an angel or even a dragon slayer to make life interesting. Maybe, instead, he needed a shapeshifter.

For you too deserve someone as changeable as yourself.

One day, Jim would have your power all to himself.

One day.

“Life _is_ a beautiful, wretched thing," he hummed.

_Just. Like. You._

For you, Eve Riley, were his key to a life worth living: a life of transcendence from the shrill cries of the ordinary. You would unlock all the doors in the kingdom for him.

And he, for one, could not wait to see you in a crown.

Your husband truly didn’t deserve you.

“That, children, is enough.”

_Speak of the..well, you know the rest._

You snapped your gaze from Jim to see Clint, growling and covered in blood, in the doorway of the kitchen.

“You made a—”

“Don’t start with me, _wife_.”

“I thought you were in meetings all night.”

“I _was_. Until I heard that your game with this juvenile delinquent involved you putting your hands all over that moron. And I lost. My. Temper.”

Jim sprang from his seat. Grinding his teeth, he tilted his head to the side and balled his hands into fists.

“And what’s got you so sexually frustrated, Riley? Can’t—”

“Shut the fuck up and get out of my house.” 

Clint took a step forward. He jabbed his finger towards Jim as blood dripped from his hand. Jim scowled at him.

“You Americans have no manners. No, I’m a guest of your wife’s. I’m staying.”

“You and I both know that she has no voice here. Get out before I take the option away from you.”

Jim snickered and shook his head. 

“She doesn’t need a voice to feel up Sherlock Holmes.”

“You utter waste of human intelligence!”

Clint lurched forward. But you leaped between the two men and put your palm to your husband’s heaving chest, painting your hand with the blood of the messenger. With wide eyes, you pleaded to Jim.

“You should leave me and my husband to work this out ourselves. Please leave.”

“What kind of a pathetic creature needs to strangle his wife into submission?”

You sucked in a breath. “Don’t do this. Leave. Now.”

Clint leaned back from your hand as his eyes shot daggers into Jim, who was utterly tickled by the touch.

“I could tell the moment you touched that necklace. That’s why you can’t sleep next to him. Hard to rest next to the hands that crush your windpipe every night.”

You vigorously shook your head.

“I-I didn’t, I didn’t tell him.”

But Clint took no heed to your pointless words. Like every night, he latched his palm to your throat. He slammed your head against the counter. The pressure from his hand stifled your shriek as your eyes started to water and the ceiling spun above you.

“Now, Riley. It’s the liar’s truth. Take your hands off your wife. It’s just savage.”

Baring his teeth, Clint jeered at you. You could smell the smoke from his breath with your last whiff of air.

“Every breath you take is a gift from me, you lying, manipulative witch.”

He released his grip just enough for you to gasp for air. Jim raised his eyebrows as your husband tightened his grip on you once again.

“As much as you pretend you’re not afraid of me, you can’t fight biology, baby girl. Your body is desperate to live. And you only do so because of me. Every day. And you know that.”

You clawed at his forearms as your eye started twitching. He snickered.

“You clipped your nails right when we got home because you knew I’d do it for you. That’s how much I’ve broken you. Because you just love this game of ours. Admit it.”

“Riley, that’s enough," Jim commanded.

Clint growled at him. 

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!”

Grateful for the distraction, your breath gasped to return to normal as Clint loosened his grip on you. Jim glanced down and clicked his tongue. Shaking his head, he sneered and started rolling up his sleeves.

“That’s your problem, Riley. Always so vulnerable to rules and protocols. You think your mistrust protects you. But it really leaves you that much more hopelessly open to an attack.”

He glanced down and raised his eyebrows at Clint’s chest. You followed his eye line to see the red dot dancing across his bloodstained shirt.

“Jim, please. Don’t do this,” you whispered.

Clint furrowed his brow and saw his mark. His lip upturned as he drew in a sharp inhale, boring his eyes into Jim.

Jim shook his finger and put his other hand in his pocket.

“You do all your own security sweeps. You don’t let anyone drive you. You rely entirely on yourself and premeditation to protect you because you don’t trust anyone else to do it.”

He glanced to the side and shook his head.

“Oh, yeah. Except for your beautiful wife.”

“Call them off, Jim. Call them off,” you squeaked.

“See,” he waved a finger at you, “that just hurts.”

He put his hand over his chest and leaned forward.

“You are the most ravishingly destructive creative I’ve ever found. And look at what he’s done to you. Listen to yourself beg. It’s a crime against your inhumanity.” 

“I made her into the monster that she is. She’s nothing without me, Moriarty.”

“What a garden variety abuser you are. You say that she’s not the one in charge. Which, in fairness to your arrogance, is true. But you're not the one, shall we say... _calling the shots_ either.”

He chuckled. “You Americans think yourselves invincible. Well, welcome to London, Clint Riley. Where I, Jim Moriarty, am the king of crime. And you have overstayed your welcome in my dominion.”

Jim snickered at you. “You can thank me later.”

Your eyes blew wide open as Jim twirled his finger in the air with a whistle. The red dot on your husband’s chest trailed upward to his throat. His blood sprayed across your face as he flew backward. The shot tore his neck to shreds. 

Clint convulsed on the marble floor as his blood shot forth from his throat like a fountain. Jim frowned. If only there were angels to dance around it.

You fell to your knees and applied pressure to the wound.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Your wide eyes shot between your dying husband and his orchestrated killer.

You tried to piece Clint back together. But his blood painted you and your home without discrimination, claiming it all as his own even in death.

“Cleaning house.” Jim put his hands in his pockets and raised his eyebrows.

“HELP ME!”

“Now, why would I do that? Undo all the good work I just executed? I thought you’d be happy. He never deserved you.”

Your lip upturned as you growled at him.

“No man deserves the fate I cast on him. But I need him ALIVE!”

“I think he looks great like this.”

Blood spewed from Clint’s mouth. You threw off your shirt and tried to absorb what you could of your dearly departing husband. But this was the only fate for anyone who dared live in the House of Adler. 

He finally went limp as the life extinguished from his eyes. Nostrils flaring with heavy breath, you bore your eyes into Jim.

“You just signed my death warrant, you arrogant fuck!”

You sprang to your feet and threw out your arms. Jim ducked to the side to avoid the blood splattering from your hands.

“I know. But I want to hear it from you,” he mused. “Enlighten me, Eve.”

“What is it with you men and your twisted mind games!”

“I thought you liked to play.”

You wrinkled your nose and threw your hands into your hair.

“If anything happens to him, he has a whole slew of hitmen who come after ME. My fate is to die on his funeral pyre. Because if he can’t have me, then no one can.”

Jim smirked and you lunged forward to grab the front of his shirt. He frowned at the new stains. But it was worth it to be in the glow of your fury.

“I am an incredibly capable woman, Jim Moriarty. But I cannot beat him. Not in life and not in his death. What the FUCK did you do?!”

“Do you have that little faith in me?”

You flung him from your grasp. Gritting your teeth, you walked around to the other side of your dead husband. His body was the only thing that separated you from Jim. You balled your hands into fists as you glared at your vanquished creator. 

After a sharp inhale, you raised your gaze to Jim. Your upper lip twitched as your eyes bore into him.

“What did you do?” you hissed.

“I set you free.”

“You’re not my savior.”

“Don’t bore me. No, his mistake was treating you like product.” Jim pointed to the corpse. “He was terrified of you. Because he knew the reality of the situation was that _he_ was the one who was nothing with you.”

He leaned forward and put his hands on his chest. You withdrew your gun and aimed it right between his fingertips.

“But I have no interest in controlling you. No, I will give you the world just to watch it burn at your feet.”

Jim stepped over Clint’s body and pressed his chest to the barrel of your gun. 

“He sends an army after you and you cower. But don’t settle, Eve. Expand your mind.”

He tapped the side of his temples with his fingertips.

“Won’t you and I have so much more fun slaughtering them all together? One by one. All the king's horses and all the king's men,” he gestured to Clint, “couldn’t put the Rileys together again.”

He winked at you. “After all, his vow to you was ‘til death do you part.”

With a grin, Jim placed his hand over your weapon. You slowly lowered it and sucked in a breath.

“One condition.”

“Anything.”

“Destroy his organization and the rest of Ashworth’s.”

“Done.”

You glanced down and swallowed. With a grunt, you slammed your gun on the countertop. You crossed your arms and leaned into one hip.

“You don’t own me.” You glared at him.

“I, and apparently Sherlock also, would never even dream of it.”

“We’re not done tormenting him either.”

He smirked.

“Finally, someone who gets me.”


	32. Sherlock's First Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this far with me! With this chapter, we've officially surpassed the word count for Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. So CONGRATS on reading a novel with me. I'm honored that you're still on this journey. Thank you for reading, every kudos, and comment! I'm so excited to continue to see where this story takes us!

John scrambled downstairs to find Sherlock furiously pointing his finger at his bare chest. 

“Sherlock,” he groaned. “What the..put a shirt on!”

“She was here.” 

He tapped the spot right below his bruise. John raised his eyebrows. 

“Well, that’s one hell of a clue.”

Sherlock started pacing around the room and tangled his fingers into his hair. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath before pressing the heels of his palms to his forehead.

“She was actually here. They weren’t just dreams. She was here. In this room...”

With a twitch, he darted to his bedroom and emptied your belongings onto his bed. To his disappointment, nothing was missing or new amongst your small collection of things. 

John returned to the kitchen after turning off the hot water in Sherlock’s bathroom. For the life of him, he would probably never understand the way you two communicated.

But before he had to suffer through that line of thinking any longer, Sherlock ran from his bedroom and started furiously shaking him by his shoulders. As his head bobbed back and forth, he smirked at the fire in Sherlock’s eyes.

Even if he didn’t understand it, whatever you did was working.

Progress.

“She had to leave something else. Look,” Sherlock said. “She knew that I wasn’t in a mental state to remember anything. Probably a...a….”

With wide eyes, he bolted upright and furrowed his brow—successfully freeing John from his grasp.

_ Why did you come? Why did you come in the manner that you did? _

He slammed his eyes closed and pressed his fingertips to his temples. Sherlock drew in a sharp inhale and swallowed. After a moment, he clapped his hands together before pointing at John.

“She drugged me.”

“So true love isn’t dead after all.”

“No, John. You’re not getting it.”

John cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. Sherlock grinned and rubbed his neck—now infinitely grateful for the sharp pangs that preceded your moonlit visitations.

“She drugged me because she had to incapacitate me. But why? If she was here by herself, she would have slapped me awake and told me everything she needed. But no. She had to be cryptic. Not just for her protection, but because she’s playing a game. And she’s not playing alone.”

He spun around and held out his hands. John tried to suppress his own grin as Sherlock shook his head. A shameless smile spread across the detective’s face.

“It’s brilliant! She’s leading me right to her as part of her game with her monster of a husband. And he has no idea that  _ he’s _ the one getting played.”

Sherlock blinked a few times before throwing himself in his chair. Pressing his fingertips to his lips, he closed his eyes and extracted everything you said to him.

_ I didn’t mean any of it. He’s a monster and he took me away from you. _

Yes, of course you had to say that. Your moronic husband didn’t know about your video. You had to offer an olive branch to make up for your alleged betrayal at the hospital.

_ You already know where I am. _

The question he’s asked for days. 

What did he know? Know what? Know where? How did he know it?

_ We don’t have much time. _

Time. Time. Time.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“What time is it?” He latched his hand to the armrest and stared at John.

John pointed at the clock on the mantle. 

“It’s—” 

But he furrowed his brow. Sherlock whipped his head around. His eyes blew wide open to see the clock hands frozen in place.

12:44

He threw his head back and chuckled. John covered his mouth to hide his smirk.

Sherlock stood up and narrowed his eyes at the clock face. He was truly delighted to be in the presence of your brilliance once again. With a sparkle in his eyes, he rubbed his palms together and tilted his head to the side.




Where did he know 1244 from?

Sherlock blinked a few times before spinning around. After a deep breath, he closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his lips. 

He opened his eyes again, now surrounded by a lush garden. 

Furrowing his brow, he examined a bed of white roses with blood dripping from the thorns. The flowers bloomed brilliantly at the apex of their lifespan. 

Sherlock walked along the earthen trail beneath his feet. He slowly approached a looming tree in the distance. 

When he arrived at his destination, every muscle in his body relaxed. He let out a deep sigh of relief to see you standing underneath and smiling at him.

Sherlock approached you and traced his fingertips along the side of your face. You wouldn’t disappear on him now.

“Took you long enough, Holmes.” You smirked.

“Where are you?”

“I’m right here.”

“I know. But where are you?”

“You already know.”

“1244. It’s not the number of the bar, the restaurant, nor the shopping centre. It has no significance to any location we’ve been to. Not even the flat where we first met...if you were being sentimental and going back to the beginning.”

You placed your hand over his and leaned into his touch, kissing his palm. He sucked in a breath at the feeling.

“When have you ever been one for sentiment?” you chuckled.

He smirked. You lowered his hand so you could wrap your arms around his neck.

“Who am I?”

“My friend.”

“Always. But not relevant. Who. Am. I?”

“My…”

You shook your head.

“Now who’s getting sentimental? You were right to go back to the beginning.”

“The beginning of us?”

“The beginning of it all.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. You traced the side of his face with a smile.

“Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

You started to separate yourself from him. But he grabbed your wrists and yanked you back to him, guiding your arms around his waist.

“Don’t leave.”

“You’re not getting it.”

Sherlock tangled his fingers in your hair and pressed his forehead to yours. He closed his eyes.

“Then tell me.”

“I’d tell you the address right now, but you know what? I already have. Think.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open to see Irene staring back at him.

“But I-I never told her about you.”

“No, but someone has.”

“12:44. No, not 1244 but 0044.”

“Back to the beginning.” She smirked and traced the side of his face. “Your first sin.”

“But if she knows about you then…”

Irene outstretched her hand and an apple fell from the tree. She held it out to Sherlock. He furrowed his brow at the gesture. But his eyes blew wide open when he saw the three letters carved into it.

I O U

When Sherlock glanced back up from the message, you were now the woman holding the apple and looking upon his terror-stricken face. A dazzling golden snake lowered itself from the branches and flicked its tongue from behind you.

“I’m not playing with my husband, Sherlock. It’s—”

“Moriarty.”

“And we’re running out of time.”

You lowered the apple and stroked the side of his face. Sherlock tangled his fingers in your hair and shook his head.

“And you did this, you did this all to help me find you. He thinks he’s setting a trap for me but you, you…”

“I am no fool, Sherlock. I know what a dangerous man Jim Moriarty is. And I don’t like who I’ll have to become to survive in his world.”

“You can’t, you can’t lo—”

“Never. My heart lies elsewhere.”

He closed his eyes for a deep inhale. He wrapped his hands around your face and furrowed his brow at you.

“You could have just told me. You could have outsmarted him. You already have. Why the games? I thought we weren’t playing anymore.”

You tilted your head to kiss his thumb before smiling back at him.

“It wouldn’t have mattered unless you saw it for yourself.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and gave you a single nod. 

He brought your lips to his and drank in the deliverance of your touch, heart yearning for the mirage to melt away and reveal you actually standing before him. You pulled away just enough to breathe onto his aching lips, neither of you opening eyes.

“Friends?”

“Friends.”

You traced the side of his face. Sherlock's jaw ticked as his eyelids fluttered open to take in the (finally) crystal clear sight of you looking into his eyes.

“Now,” you whispered. “Find me.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew back open. His pupils shrank to accommodate for the sunlight that illuminated the flat.

Breathing heavily, he turned to John and swallowed.

“44 Eaton Square. We have to go now.” 

John furrowed his brow. “Now? Are you sure?”

“Yes, we’re running out of time.”

John gave him a single nod. They got ready in record time before dashing out of the flat. Sherlock slammed the door shut and wrapped your scarf around his neck as he raced down the stairs.

In the cab, he stared out the window and tapped his fingertips along his knees. Glancing at him, John took a deep breath. 

“What’s going to happen when we get there?”

“I don’t know.” 

“You? Predictor of every possible circumstance and outcome? Do you know what you’re going to do?”

“Play along.” He turned his head to look at John. “We just have to follow her lead.”

John gave him a nod and the two sat in silence for the rest of the ride. 

For a cruel moment, their minds wandered to what could have happened to you while you were imprisoned by the confines of your marital bliss. But John shoved the thought aside in lieu of your confirmed safety. Sherlock, on the other hand, readjusted your scarf—eager to reunite it with you.

However, all thought came to a screeching halt when the taxi rolled up to flashing lights and police outside of their intended destination. Before the vehicle came to a full stop, Sherlock threw open the door and sprinted toward the crime scene.

Greg blinked a few times and tilted his head before chasing after him through the front door. When he got inside, Sherlock froze.

“I-I was just about to call you,” Greg panted. “How did you—”

“Shut up.”

Mouth slightly open, his chest rose and fell with the weight of the sight before him.

Clint Riley, dead and ghastly pale, lay across the entryway. His eyes stared straight into Sherlock’s...as if to warn him of the fate of any man who dared seek safety in the Garden of Eden.

Three letters, painted in the monster’s blood, taunted Sherlock across the floorboards.

I O U

“Oh God,” John’s voice cracked behind him.

All of time slowed down. Sherlock spun around and ran out to the street. Clenching his hands, he ripped through the air above him as an inhuman growl erupted from his throat. His fury turned the heads of every member of law enforcement.

John grabbed him from behind and yanked him out of the path of an oncoming vehicle. Sherlock elbowed him to free himself from his grasp. Nostrils flaring and grinding his teeth, Sherlock threw his hands into his hair as the world started spinning around him.

“We’re too late. She was RIGHT HERE!”

He cursed Irene’s home with a wave of his hand.

“And now, now she’s with…” He hissed through his teeth. “We’ll never find her now. He’ll make sure of it. He’s taken her like a prize, like a thing, like...ALL THE REST OF THEM!”

John rubbed his forehead with his palm. He sucked in a breath; trying to quell his nausea as he pulled out his phone. Fingers trembling, he opened the app for your tracker. 

But you, now in the spider’s web, already crossed the threshold that disabled your GPS. Your connection to John was severed the moment you stepped into Jim Moriarty’s home. 

John pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and slammed his eyes shut.

“No, no, no, no.”

“What are you muttering about?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 

With a huff, he snatched John’s mobile and stared at the empty map. Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his grip. Through gritted teeth, he sucked in a breath. 

He seized John by the lapels of his coat.

“YOU KNEW!”

“She told me not to tell you! She told me she was safe!”

“You SPOKE to her?!”

“Yes, through the blog.”

John slammed his eyes shut. Sherlock flung him from his grasp and retrieved the phone with a growl. He opened the traitor’s blog and scrolled through to see your comment staring back at him.

With a pained face, Sherlock swallowed and turned his back to John. His heart broke over the truth that John did exactly what he said to do only moments ago.

He followed your lead.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry. She told us not to go looking for her. TWICE! And you,” he waved his hand, “well, you were…”

“I know.”

John furrowed his brow. He took a deep breath and Sherlock turned back around. With sorrowful eyes, Sherlock handed the phone back to John and grimaced.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry too.”

Sherlock stared at the sidewalk as his breathing slowed. John, relieved to have not vomited all over the pavement, swallowed and glanced at the detective.

“We’ll find her.”

“Of course we will.” He looked at John. “We just don’t know who she’ll be when we get there.”

“Yes, we do.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. But John bore his eyes into him.

“She’s our friend.”

Sherlock blinked firmly to deny the onslaught of emotion from creeping into his eyes. Wrinkling his nose, he dragged his hand over his mouth.

After a few deep breaths, he swallowed and started walking away. John followed close behind as they ignored Greg’s shouts from the patio of Irene’s—now your—former home.

It was time to wait for your siren’s call.

Time to play along.


	33. Can You Hear the Hoofbeats Ringing?

Upper body covered in nothing but blood and a bra, you bolted to the bedroom. You threw on a shirt and snatched your go-bag. When you reunited with Jim in the entryway, he wrinkled his nose at your covered state of dress.

“He’s got a thing for scars.”

“Which one?” You rolled your eyes. “I assume you have someone to take care of…”

You gestured to Clint’s cooling corpse in the kitchen.

“He’ll be gift wrapped. Don’t you worry.”

You nodded. “Lead the way.”

Jim offered his hand to you. But you strode past him to the patio. A black town car pulled up to the curb and he opened the door for you.

You slid into the seat and drew in a deep breath. As you stared out the window, you tapped your fingers on your knees and swallowed. Jim eyed you from the other window seat and chucked to himself.

“Clint was always too refined for my taste. But it might actually be useful to us now. How many horses are on their way?”

“Nine.”

He scoffed. “You disappoint me, Eve. He really had you wrapped around his finger.”

You glared at him. But Jim inched closer to you. 

He placed his finger underneath your chin and led your eyes back to his. Your heart pounded against the walls of your chest. You could smell the danger from his breath.

“Nine is nothing,” he taunted. “In fact, I argue there are only eight sets of hooves beating for your head.”

“And what led you to that brilliant deduction, Jim Moriarty?”

“He’s not taking you to Hell with him. He’s putting you through it.”

“Clint loved his Dante.”

“And I love a good fairytale. The first circle is limbo. You’re slaying the dragon as you sit here with me...wondering if you’ll survive his Divine Comedy.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear and leaned in to whisper. Chills snaked up your spine as you held your breath. You closed your eyes and bit your lip as his hand brushed against your neck.

“And who better to keep you company in your suffering than me?”

For the rest of the ride, Jim mostly examined you in silence. Your chest rose and fell with anxious breath stinging your lungs. When your nervousness reached its apex, you would wrap your hand around your neck to soothe yourself. 

Peculiar.

After forty-three minutes, the car pulled up outside of a suspiciously familiar-looking building. You furrowed your brow.

“We’re in the same neighborhood. Why?” 

You finally turned to him and he snickered.

“Wanted to take the scenic route.”

You rubbed the back of your neck and took a deep breath.

“Fine. But I know you don’t live here.”

“I don’t live anywhere.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. Biting his lip, he tilted his head to the side and grinned.

“Although I admit that sometimes I live in ordinary people’s homes.” Satisfaction gleaned behind his eyes. “Just to study their ordinariness.”

“And for an afternoon fix of terrorizing them.”

He raised his hands in the air.

“You got me!” He leaned in closer. “Maybe we can do it together next time.”

You tilted your chin downward and bore your eyes into his. 

“Only if you promise me there will be no survivors.”

A devilish sneer spread across his face. 

Jim slowly leaned back and exited the car. He held the door open for you with a flourish of his hand. You couldn’t help but glare at him as he bowed when you stepped out. He relished the sight.

On the sidewalk, you took a deep breath before Jim led you to your designated location. When you walked over the threshold, the GPS jammer in the doorway effectively extinguished your signal. 

Jim assumed your possessive husband chipped you long ago. He couldn’t let it be _that_ easy for ponies to find you. And he knew better than to ask you about your marital affairs. It would be his little secret.

The interior was like a smaller version of Irene’s home. The size worked to your benefit since it would be easier to secure. 

As if rewriting the events of that morning, you tossed your bag next to the kitchen island and pulled out your laptop.

_You could actually call it yours now._

Jim snatched up an apple from the bowl in the center of the island. He tossed it in the air with one hand while putting his other hand in his pocket. You started typing away and he raised his eyebrows at you.

“I’d offer it to you but…”

He threw the apple at you. You caught the cursed fruit without looking up from the screen.

“What would that make me?” he sang.

You set the apple down and continued typing.

“An archangel.”

He snickered and nodded to your computer.

“Enjoying your inheritance?”

“I’m redirecting it. He never let me touch the finances. Of course, that only meant I had to get more creative with my own manipulation of money.”

Jim popped a piece of gum in his mouth and shook his head.

“He built this whole empire for a few little numbers on a computer screen. All so he could feel like he was powerful. Such a waste of good criminal intent.”

You scoffed. “Except now it’s going to fund our extracurriculars. Ironic?”

“Divinely orchestrated.”

You pushed the screen over so he could examine your work.

“There. What do you think?”

Jim tilted his head to the side and licked his lips. He scrolled through your pages of transactions. You set up a variety of payment processors and accounts. The money drained from those of the dearly departed and into one that you set up for yourself long ago.

But Jim furrowed his brow at the payments _leaving_ your account.

“Why would you send—”

“He’s a hamster, Jim. If we don’t feed and water him, he’ll expire on us. And then who will we have to play with?” 

You raised your eyebrows and he nodded. With a smirk, you plucked the apple from the counter and took a bite. You swallowed and shook your head.

“Besides, it’s not about the money. Read the message.”

He narrowed his eyes to piece together your first clue to Sherlock. When the gears clicked into place, he threw his head back and howled in laughter. You set the apple down and snickered.

Jim wrapped his hands around your face and beamed his sinister smile at you.

“Was it really that bad? Perhaps I could relieve you of your suffering.”

You smacked his hand away and he withdrew.

“You may tease, but not touch, Jim. My body is finally mine again.”

He raised his hands in agreement. Chuckling, he swiped the apple from the countertop.

“If he’s so in love with you, won’t this hurt his poor broken baby heart?”

“He’s addicted enough to the game. When you train a dog, you don’t give him a treat for every successful trick. No, he keeps lying down in hopes that this will be the time he gets his reward. We can’t make it too easy on him, now can we?”

“I love a good challenge. It’s the whole reason you’re here.” 

He spat out his gum and tore into the flesh of the apple, never breaking eye contact with you the whole time.

He couldn’t wait for the ponies to come for you.

John woke up the morning after your deal with the Devil to see a peculiar transaction in his bank records. He furrowed his brow. But remembering Sherlock’s words from yesterday, he dashed downstairs. 

In the sitting room, Sherlock was furiously darting between his computer screen and scribbling on a large sheet of paper above the couch. The canvas was carved up with an assortment of letters, strings of numbers, and failed attempts crossed out with a flourish.

With a growl, Sherlock threw the marker down and slammed his eyes shut. He brought his fingertips to his temples and started muttering.

“I tried the Caesar Shift, Alberti’s Disk, the Vigenère square, and more. But those are all too simple. She would use something more complex.”

John walked over to examine his work.

“What did she leave you?”

Perturbed by the question that John could just as easily answer himself, Sherlock sharply gestured to the laptop screen. John rolled his eyes before walking to review Sherlock’s new fortune. He raised his eyebrows at your generosity.

After a moment, John traced his fingers over the screen and tilted his head to the side.

“The numbers,” Sherlock muttered. “The numbers aren’t adding up. Or I don’t know the system she’s using. The characters don’t fit together. It can’t be too easy. But it’s something she just put together. Something she could easily access without needing high-level programming to—”

“What if it’s not about the numbers?”

John glanced at Sherlock and pointed to the screen.

“It’s a skip code. Not for the transaction amounts. But the names of the companies.”

Sherlock shoved John out of his way and studied the first three transactions

_Some Life Productions_

_Detective Disguises_

_Love You Lots Cupcakes_

Sherlock scrambled back to the couch. He flipped over the paper for a clean slate before picking up the marker and hopping on the couch to write. Nodding his head, he waved to John.

“Read it.”

John cleared his throat.

“Er, some detective you are…”

Sherlock scribbled away. John furrowed his brow. He slowed down, not wanting to miss a single beat.

“You couldn’t find…”

He paused. Sherlock spun around and waved his hands to ask John to continue.

“Keep going!”

John frowned and leaned back from the screen. Wrinkling his nose, he shook his head.

“I’m not reading that out loud.”

“What are you...” 

Sherlock drew in a breath and blinked a few times. He leaped down from the couch and snatched the laptop from the table. Furrowing his brow, Sherlock pursed his lips together at your wildly inaccurate message.

_Some detective you are. You couldn’t find the G spot._

“Was it...was it really that bad?” John scowled. “You know what, I don’t want to know.”

Sherlock set the laptop down and pressed his fingertips to his lips.

“She’s a liar.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I really don’t want—”

“No, John. She’s a liar. She’s doing what she does best. The lie, her lie, is preferable to the truth. He’ll want so badly to believe that she’s real—whatever she’s made herself into for him.”

He started pacing. A gentle smirk spread across his lips.

“It’s just a magic trick.”

“A trick?”

“Yes, John. Watch the right hand while the other...” He spun his hand through the air. “She gave him the lie. Then wrapped it up in a truth. They’re always entangled together. The real message is in here somewhere. It’s...it’s…”

He spun around and stared at John.

“What did she send you?”

“Er, actually, something she’s more likely to send to you.”

Sherlock gestured for him to continue.

“From the Adult Entertainment Society.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and furrowed his brow for a moment.

_Adult Entertainment Society._

With a sharp inhale, he bolted to the computer and reviewed his previous bank statements. 

_Did you send him a secret that long ago?_

But as he scrolled through the various transactions, the only message for him was your flirtatious thank you for his blood and hospitality. Any other code produced mashed up gibberish of lewd innuendos from the adult entertainment industry.

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock furrowed his brow at John.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

Sherlock’s jaw twitched. You sent him a string of various mundane transactions. But only one to John? What was so special about this one?

“How much?”

“What?”

“How much! How much was the transaction for?”

“2.56”

_2.56_

_256 256 256_

_256 from the Adult Entertainment Society. The Adult Entertainment Society._

_AES_

“Of course!”

Sherlock leaned his head back as he drew in a sharp inhale. 

“She always leaves the password with you.”

He triumphantly shook his fist and, starting with the first transaction, transcribed your key onto the paper.

He couldn’t have suppressed his grin even if he wanted to. He’d never tire of being kissed by your brilliance, even if you were nowhere in sight.

John furrowed his brow. “What does it mean?”

“Advanced Encryption Standard. She’s given us a 256-bit key.”

“But Sherlock, there aren’t 256 numbers here. How’s—”

“Bits. 256 bits, John. The key is a 32 character hexadecimal string composed of letters and numbers. It’s all right there.”

“Okay...and once we have the key?”

“She’ll send us the message.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post a few 'director's cut' notes on [Tumblr](http://melanoms.tumblr.com/). If you're curious about my writing process and some of the clues that got laid out throughout the story. It might be a bit before the next chapter is here because my brain is fried. But I hope you enjoyed this one! Got to use my Number Theory class for _once_ in my life.


	34. Worthy of a Crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t plan on having Moriarty as a character when I started this. Honestly, I’m still only a few episodes into Series 3. So, for the sake of this story, we’re going to assume that Jim didn’t die on the roof (at this point, I have no idea what actually happened to him). He went underground for a little bit and became a few whispers. Only to emerge and confirm the rumors as true as a part of this story.
> 
> Also, if you want to nerd out about my code, you can crack the message before Sherlock does [here.](https://www.devglan.com/online-tools/aes-encryption-decryption) The key is 39792442264529484048635166546757. The input must be set to HEX and the key size is 256 bits. You have to enter it on the online DECRYPTION side. Click decrypt then decode to plain text.

Mere minutes after Sherlock transcribed your encryption key, John’s laptop pinged to announce a new email. Before he could get to the screen for further investigation, it pinged eight more times. 

He opened his laptop and furrowed his brow at the series of new comments you submitted for moderation.

 **_Username:_ ** _CantWaitforCases_

DB6A14EDD2329E6C7E0BA582B9C3C313

 **_Username:_ ** _SlutforSherlock_

D7E97370DE484E3BCC44547FA42C7493

 **_Username:_ ** _EpicureMycroft_

B4532BA328022082A08F5C0E12045180

 **_Username:_ ** _NeverEnoughGreen_

7A36F9B67571E8FA98C896C3B9A89869

 **_Username:_ ** _TheyAllKillAgain_

FAA865013DF002096D92F5DF1018E910

 **_Username:_ ** _TheDetectiveisaFraud_

A6F6524EE0511F1FFBDEB34F68459EE3

 **_Username:_ ** _HisRichenbachFall_

DA1CFA6D910F647C076A37C9DC5FFFB4

 **_Username:_ ** _EverybodyLies_

94B6072096A9AB2A74257F4CEC1870D5

 **_Username:_ ** _MyThirdBetrayal_

560FB6A5F46BD30D77C78EFF214596C2

John’s eyes glazed over your cryptic message. He was already moving out of the way when Sherlock dashed to the screen. 

Sherlock opened a decryptor and started to crack your message. But he frowned at the results.

_Aren’t we done playing games you asshole of a friend?_

“What does it say?” John asked.

Just as John went to look at the screen, Sherlock bolted to the bookshelf. He scanned the entire room for surveillance equipment. But his search yielded no results.

John started shaking his head.

“Why? Why go through all that trouble with the encryption just to leave this?”

Sherlock leaned back over the laptop to study your comments.

“You know,” John continued, “you can catch me up to your insufferable telepathic communication. At least it’s nothing sexual this time. Well, aside from the one username.”

Sherlock tilted his head at John.

_Yes, who were these people you cast in your play?_

CantWaitforCases.

_Waiting. Paused. Eager, but yearning._

SlutforShelrock.

_Sexual. Desire. Lustful._

EpicureMycroft.

He snickered.

_Connoisseur. Glutton._

He raced through the rest of the usernames to confirm.

_Hoarders. Wrathful. Suicide. Liars. And the three traitors._

“The Nine Circles of Hell. But why?” he breathed.

Sherlock blinked a few times before his eyes scanned the first letter of every username.

C SENT THEM

With a growl, he spun around and started pacing the room.

“Sherlock,” John interjected, “what’s going on?”

“She's being targeted by a series of assassins who represent the Nine Circles of Hell.”

“And the encryption was just another trick?”

“No.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a breath.

“It’s because she knows that she’s not safe. And not just because—”

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson called from the front door. “A letter came for you.”

His eyes flew open, knowing exactly who sent it.

Game. Set. Match.

After sending Sherlock and John your series of clues, you took your third shower of the last twelve hours in hopes of cleansing yourself from your husband’s imprint.

When you exited the bathroom wrapped in a towel, you rolled your eyes at Jim sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“I’m sure you don’t miss your previous choice of flatmates. But I do hope the water pressure was able to perform.”

He wiggled his eyebrows. You tossed the towel from your hair across the bed and crossed your arms.

“Get out.”

“I came to tell you that I am doing just that.”

You raised your eyebrows. Jim rose to his feet and tilted his head.

“I know you didn’t get a single minute of sleep last night. I’m leaving for a few hours to tend to other matters. You can enjoy your solitude.”

“And you’re suddenly so concerned with my beauty rest?”

He smirked. “Can’t let you run through Hell looking like the harpies.” 

“Fine. I don’t care where you go or how long you’re gone. Just get out.”

“Oh Eve,” he clicked his tongue. “You’re almost as rude at your husband. Almost.”

Jim opened the door to exit your room. With a snicker, he turned to leave you with one parting message.

“Enjoy being a widow.”

After you confirmed that Jim left, you got dressed in the clothes that you set out for yourself before your shower. With a sigh, you threw yourself onto the end of your bed. Even you couldn’t lie well enough and say you weren’t utterly exhausted. 

But you couldn’t sleep. 

Not yet.

Rather, you decided to descend into the caverns of your heart. But instead of meeting the typical iron bars that cast themselves over your cave, you tilted your head in front of the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

You spun around to confirm that you were, in fact, at 221B Baker Street. With a deep breath, you accepted the much needed change in scenery. You placed your fingertips on his door and gently pushed to open it.

Sherlock sat upright in bed. He was watching something on John’s laptop that was propped on a few books at the end. Sensing your presence, he smirked and extended a plate of chips to you. Although he never removed his eyes from the screen.

You furrowed your brow. But, after a few cautious steps, you hopped in bed next to him and accepted one of his offerings.

“It’s quite the show,” he murmured.

Your eyes flickered to the screen to see you and Jim in the car. His hands were wrapped around your face as he leaned in close to whisper into your ear.

“I’m hating every moment of it. He’s worse than Clint.”

“Your husband is, no, _was_ , a moron.”

“Don’t say that.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and glanced at you for the first time since you entered.

“Why?”

“Because I was under his thumb for so long. Insult him and you’re insulting me.”

Sherlock gave you a single nod and resumed looking at the screen. You snatched the chip he had in hand and took a bite.

“The encryption was clever,” he said. “Where did you learn that?”

“Clint had a few actual spies cycle through his network. I tried to pick up as many skills as I could in case I had to use them one day.”

You shook your head. 

“Wait, why am I telling you this? You already know. Because you’re, well, me.”

“I miss you too.”

You frowned at him. But after a swallow, you and Sherlock sat in silence as you watched your partnership with Jim unfold on the screen. After a moment, you drew in a deep breath and shook your head.

“Something’s not right about this.”

“Of course.”

“No, not just because of who he is. But it’s all been...too easy.”

Sherlock leaned against the headboard and tilted his head to look at you. Your heart fluttered at the sight. Even if he was only a figment of your longing imagination.

“And what does that tell you?” he asked.

“You know.”

“So do you. But you need to say it. You have to admit it.”

“I…”

You bit your lip and glanced down. He leaned over to trace the side of your face and bring your gaze back to his.

“The safety isn’t real,” he whispered.

“I’m just so tired. I’m so tired, Sherlock. Why can’t I just rest?”

“You need to get back in the game.”

You placed your hand over his and leaned into his touch.

“I thought we were done with games.”

“I am. But he isn’t.”

You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Oh, how it hurt.

“I know. Clint and Dante. It’s just...” You shook your head. “How do I win? How do I beat him?”

“You do what you do best. You keep playing.”

“Don’t leave. Don’t leave me.”

“Never.”

He leaned back and removed his hand from you. You gave him a nod and sucked in an aching inhale. 

“When will I see you again?”

“Soon. But if you want to see me, I need you to breathe.”

“Breathe?”

“Yes.”

You leaned forward and put your hand over your chest. With each breath you took, it felt like you couldn’t drink in enough air. You scrunched your face as you tried to suck in a breath. 

_It, it didn’t feel right._

“I don’t...what?” 

You looked back at Sherlock with panic written across your face.

He grabbed your shoulders and shook you furiously. 

“Breathe.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Eve, I need you to breathe.”

He slapped you back to consciousness.

You gasped in an inhale. But it didn’t feel…

It didn’t feel like…

... _enough air._

You threw your palm to your forehead and stumbled over the end of the bed. You blinked firmly in a futile attempt to regain focus.

The room…

It was…

There wasn’t enough air.

With shallow breaths, you dashed to the door and rattled the handle. But it refused to yield to your demands. You spun around and charged to the window. However, it too was uninterested in your need for oxygen and was sealed shut.

Your eyes started darting all over the room when the monitor on the wall turned on.

Revealing Jim Moriarty grinning ear to ear.

“Oh, Eve. We both knew that Clint only talked about Dante to impress others. The idiot never read the Divine Comedy.”

The room started spinning and you tried to pace your breath with as much control as you could. Jim snickered and continued his monologue.

“Fortunately for you, I have. You, my raging fire, deserve a true intellectual as your partner in crime. But I’m only interested in you if you’re as good as the legends claim.

“I’m pumping nitrogen gas into the room. You should be out of oxygen in the next few minutes. If you’re clever enough to make your way out...well, congratulations. You get to move on to the next circle. But if not…”

He waved a finger at the screen.

“Well, the ponies will find you. And at that point, good riddance. You’re too ordinary if you’re dead. I need to know if you’re worthy of wearing my crown.”

Jim tapped the side of his head with a sneer.

“The first circle of Hell is for the lustful. Which is quite fitting given your effect on the baby angel. The souls are tormented with a violent, endless wind. But I figure it’s more fitting for your history if I sucked all the air out of your lungs instead.”

He snickered before puckering his lips and drawing in a long, deep inhale. With a grin, he tapped the face of his wristwatch and shook his head.

“Tick tock, Eve. You’re running out of time. Either you escape and I am one step closer to a worthy playmate. Or I get to watch Sherlock cry over your dead body. Either way, I’m always the winner of this game. But I’m hoping that you prove me right about you.”

The monitor went black.

Grinding your teeth, you balled your hands into fists and raced to the door. You rammed your shoulder into the wood. But it only splintered to reveal steel underneath.

Rubbing your shoulder, you took a step back to survey the room. Your eyes went wide as you reached under your pillow for your—

Your gun was gone.

You scrambled around to confirm that every one of your weapons was gone. If only you knew they were sitting in a taunting pile just outside the door.

You gulped a shallow breath and dashed to the bathroom. With a firm jiggle, you successfully removed the shower curtain rod from its place. You stripped it of the curtain before returning to the bedroom.

After adjusting your aim, you charged forward to spear the window. But your attempt only sent the metal vibrating and your shoulder aching. You pursed your lips to prevent yourself from screaming or breathing in more of your diminishing oxygen. 

Right as you turned back to find anything else that could break the glass, your heart skipped a beat at the sound of Sherlock and John’s voices.

“EVE!”

“I’m in here!” You pounded the door with your fist. You could hear John on the other side of the door.

“Just hold tight. We’re going to get you out of there.”

“He, he’s displacing all the oxy—”

“Don’t talk,” Sherlock demanded. “I know you can hold your breath for longer than you should have to. But let that work to your advantage right now.”

Even though he couldn’t see you, you nodded.

“I’m going to shoot the lock,” John said. You heard him cock your gun.

You walked backward to give him room. But after the piercing cry of your firearm, you already knew that Jim Moriarty was no fool to let your escape be that easy.

“We will get you out,” Sherlock said. “Knock once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?”

You smacked the door once.

“You tried the window?”

You smacked the door again.

“And with a sharp object? Not just your body?”

Rolling your eyes, you pounded the door once.

“The glass is reinforced?”

You smacked the door three times.

“I think that means yes,” John murmured.

You hit once to confirm his deduction was correct.

“Keep your breath steady,” Sherlock said. “What did he tell you?”

“He only wants me...if I’m smart enough to escape. If not, you can have me because...because I’m just ordinary.”

Your eyelids started to flutter and the sweat clustered on your temple. You shook your head to regain focus.

“This, this is the first circle for the lustful. But he’s sucking the air out because, because of my history. Sher-Sherlock I’m going to die in here, aren’t I?”

“He gave you a clue. What else did he say?”

“He said he wins either way. You have to...you have to watch me die or he gets closer to a playmate…oh my God. After all of this, I’m, I’m really going to die in here. Of all places.” 

You swallowed and leaned on the door. 

“What else? What else did he say?”

“He said he wants to see if I’m worthy, worthy of wearing his...his crown?”

“Jewelry. Your husband liked to give you jewelry. Do you have any still?”

“Sherlock, what kind of a question is that? Jim was all weird about...” 

“Once for yes, twice for no.”

You smacked the door once.

“Do you have any diamonds?”

You smacked the door again.

“I need you to look for a fire extinguisher.”

“What the hell?”

“LOOK!”

With a groan, you staggered upright. Senses weakened, you ransacked the room with the speed of a drunken ghost. Sherlock listened closely as you opened cabinets and moved the furniture.

Holding his own breath, John shook his head.

“He’s making her—”

“I know,” Sherlock growled.

After a few more squeaks and creaks, you tapped on the door. 

“I-I got it.”

“Secure the diamond on the glass and use the fire extinguisher to breakthrough.”

“Secure? With what?”

“Gum.”

You rolled your head back.

“For fuck’s sake. What are you—”

“DO IT NOW!”

Your eyes flickered to the nightstand where, sure enough, Jim fucking Moriarty left you a pack of gum. Unable to control your breath anymore, you panted at you walked over. You punctured the foil and ground a piece to a chewable pulp. 

When ready, you staggered to the window and stuck the piece of gum to the glass. You removed the diamond earring from your earlobe and placed it in the center. 

At the time, you thought it odd that Jim was adamant you keep all the jewelry your dearly departed husband left you. He said it was part of your inheritance. If only you knew what he had planned then. You could have planted the other earring in his eyeball.

You dragged the fire extinguisher across the floorboards and tried to lift it. But your muscles were growing weaker by the second. 

“Sherlock, I-I…”

“Take as deep of a breath as you can. Break the glass.”

“It’s, it’s just so heavy. I’m tired. I’m so tired.”

“Do it and you can come home.”

You bit your lip and nodded. After the biggest gulp of air you could muster, you heaved up the fire extinguisher to your shoulder. You took deep breaths to steady your aim. 

Then, drilling your eyes into that gum-encrusted diamond, you charged forward with all the force your muscles could gather.

_And then some._

When you slammed the end of that fire extinguisher into the glass, the cracks splintered across the surface like interwoven spider webs. You relaxed your shoulder and the fire extinguisher collapsed to the floor. 

Sherlock and John raced to the back of the house as you started slicing your hand through the glass shards to free yourself—gasping for the fresh air of the outside as your salvation.

When they arrived, Sherlock laid his coat over the window sill as they helped you crawl out of that cursed room. Glass shards in your hair and pricking your skin, you collapsed into Sherlock’s chest as blood painted your hands and face.

Except this time, it was your own.

“Get me out of here,” you gasped.

Sherlock and John exchanged a firm glance. You could feel Sherlock’s chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. He leaned down to kiss the top of your head.

John took your hand in his and squeezed. He smiled at you through sad eyes.

“Yes, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been trying to _not_ spam you with author’s notes so you can enjoy the clues yourself and pick up extras if you go back and re-read. But if you put in the work to decrypt her code, I wanted to tell you WHY it’s such a bland, peculiar message.
> 
> Eve knew that Moriarty was the one who arranged the assassinations the moment she mentioned Dante (more details on that to come). So she also knew that any message she sent to Sherlock and John had the risk of being intercepted. She couldn’t tell them any additional information that she and Jim didn’t already share.
> 
> By sending Sherlock “through the ringer” to figure out this complicated encryption then saying “wtf, I thought the games were over?”, she was bringing attention to the fact that she WAS deliberately playing a game...because someone ELSE was watching.
> 
> No message was safe. That’s why Sherlock went to look for surveillance equipment when he read that message and why he knew exactly who was pulling the strings when that letter arrived.
> 
> Moriarty started round 2.
> 
> I'm adding more 'director's cuts' like these on [Tumblr.](http://melanoms.tumblr.com) I've got [this one here](https://melanoms.tumblr.com/post/618200836563222528/power-play-directors-cut-on-sherlock-finding) about the clues to finding Eve's location and Sherlock's mind palace / garden of Eden scene.


	35. Love Isn't Dead, It Just Went to Hell

On the taxi ride back to 221B Baker Street, John and Sherlock furiously picked the glass out of your hair. Sitting between your doting friends, you swatted their hands away and shook your head. More glass fell to the seat. 

“Stop, stop! Stop touching me! I’m fine!”

“I’m your doctor. And I say you’re not.”

John leaned over to examine your scalp. But you bared your teeth and growled at him.

_ Yes, literally growled at him. _

With a gloved hand, Sherlock wiped the seat, tossing the abandoned pieces of glass to the floor. When he leaned over you to tend to the space between you and John, you tilted your head and smiled.

“So pretty…” you mumbled.

John eyed Sherlock with concern. But when he was upright once again, Sherlock merely continued picking pieces out of your hair.

“‘Ey! Can you stop throwing what’er that is around!” the driver shouted.

John cleared his throat and tossed a flurry of bills in the front seat—effectively silencing all complaints and questions from the agitated man.

You panted a breathy laugh.

“Ha, you’re rich now! We’re ALL rich now because of my demonic dead husband and his fucking blood money. Blood money that I helped him make!”

You threw your head forward and covered your mouth with your hands as you started cackling hysterically—not minding the minor cut you added to your lip from a few remaining shards in your fingers. 

Sherlock and John raised their eyebrows at each other. But before they could calculate an unspoken plan of what the fuck to do with you, you threw your head back and howled in laughter. A few more pieces of glass sprinkled down from your hair. 

“And NOW, I have an even more psychopathic demon...NO, Satan himself sending assassins after me to play out the Divine Comedy because he thinks,” you giggled, “he thinks is a fucking GAME!” 

“Eve….” John started.

“I took a bite of his apple,” you snorted. “And, no. For once that’s not an innuendo.”

You glanced between the two of them. 

“Boys, this is hilarious. Why aren’t you laughing?”

John grimaced. But Sherlock yanked your hand in his and started picking out the last remaining shards. You squinted at him and hissed when he removed the last piece. 

He outstretched his hand to ask for the other. But you only wrinkled your nose in reply. His eyes widened as he gave you a firm look. You rolled your eyes and yielded to his demand. You smacked your hand over his glove, groaning upon impact.

He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Don’t tell me that. I know it’s my own damn fault,” you snipped.

“Eve, when was the last time you slept?” John asked.

You blinked a few times and smiled at him as Sherlock continued to pluck glass from your skin.

“What?”

“Average of three hours a night for the past two weeks,” Sherlock said. “You’ve also lost four pounds.”

You hiccuped and pointed your finger in the air, yanking your hand from his grasp. Fortunately for both of you, he just finished cleaning it out.

“Another brilliant deduction from my delicious detective friend.” You swiped his nose with your glass-free finger. “Except you missed the part where it wasn’t always at night.”

You leaned over to peck his cheek but hissed at the feeling of his skin on your fresh cut.

“Ow! Why’d you do that?” you pouted. “And I did not lose any weight. Is that your creepy party trick for all the girls?”

Sherlock grimaced at you as he removed his gloves. John cleared his throat and put his hand on your knee. When you flinched, he instantly retracted it with a frown.

“You’re going to bed the moment we get back,” he said.

“John, I am starving. Can we get something to eat?”

“Tell you what. When we get home, I’ll go out and bring you something back.”

You snickered and elbowed Sherlock. “And then this guy and I can….”

With a look John has now officially seen one too many times, you wiggled your eyebrows. He dragged his hand over his face with a groan.

“Oh, God…”

“Is what I’m going to be—”

Sherlock muffled the rest of your sentence by putting his hand over your mouth. After an eye spasm, you scowled at him with your gaze. But, unperturbed by your sleep-deprived fury, he only raised his eyebrows at you. 

You narrowed your eyes back. Before he could respond to the flash of mischief that danced behind them, he sharply withdrew his hand and started shaking it out with an agitated grunt.

John pointed between you and Sherlock.

“Did...did she just bite you?”

“Not the first time and won’t be the last,” you snickered.

Sherlock sucked in an inhale. But, for a brief moment, your aching heart got the better of you and you gently smiled at him. He tried to extract your message. But he could only read incoherent gibberish from your eyes. 

He finally let out his breath as your eyelids started to flutter. With a great yawn, you rested your head on his shoulder as you muttered yourself to sleep.

“Mmm, you boys. My Hardy boys. You are my heroes after all.”

John smiled as Sherlock planted a kiss on your head. It didn’t take long, but right as you fell asleep, the taxi pulled up to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock shifted in his seat. But John held out his hand to stop him.

“I’ve got it.” 

He handed the driver more cash. For the next half hour, Sherlock and John sat with you as the driver continued a few laps around the block. Both of them were grateful to be accompanied by the sound of silence.

When you succumbed to a dead sleep, the driver pulled back in front of 221B. Sherlock dutifully scooped you up from your seat. He would never forgive himself if he woke you up at that particular moment in time.

As if you would disappear on him at any moment, he carried you to his room. Sherlock laid you on the bed with a tenderness that could only be exhibited by a man in love. You, taking a page from John’s book, could only be woken if someone slapped you back to consciousness. 

Now that your body finally felt safe enough to rest.

With a heavy heart, he pulled over a chair and watched you sleep until the sun set. He pressed his fingertips to his lips and leaned back—listening to you mutter a few incoherent words about friendship this and chips that.

The only full sentence that escaped your lips was

_ I missed you too. _

Yes, you were finally home.

At one point in the evening, your eyelids fluttered open to Sherlock staring at you in the moonlit darkness. You released a great stretch from your body and mumbled to him.

“Sleep. Come back, come back,” you yawned, “to bed.”

But before you could confirm that Sherlock followed through on your drowsy command, you were nestled, once again, in the comforts of sleep. 

Fortunately for you, your imagination was too exhausted to fabricate any sort of dream or nightmare. It figured you got your fill of magic in the waking hours.

An immeasurable amount of time later, John’s voice was the next stimulus to tickle your consciousness back to the waking world. Without opening your eyes, you readjusted your body and listened in.

“I’ll watch her. You get some sleep,” he whispered.

Silence.

“Sherlock, it’s 1 in the morning. You need rest too. Does nobody care about my medical opinion around here?”

Silence.

John took a deep breath.

“I can do this. I can keep her safe.”

You finally groaned and opened your eyes. John instantly snapped his gaze to you upon the sound of your voice. Sherlock, on the hand, never let you leave his sight. With a yawn, you dragged your hand across your forehead and shook your head.

“I’m fine.”

You tilted your head to the side to eye them. John crossed his arms and frowned.

“No, you’re not. I don’t care how many times you tell us otherwise.”

“No, John. I’m  _ fine _ . As in, he’s not sending anyone after me. At least not yet.”

“And how can you be sure of that?” 

“Because he’s going to wait until I’m stronger. I’m uninteresting when I’m weak.”

You rolled your eyes. But upon the concerned look on John’s face, you took a deep breath and sat upright. 

“Besides...” 

You tilted your head to look at Sherlock.

“It’s what she would do,” he finished for you.

You clicked your tongue and pointed a finger at him. 

“And they say true love is dead.”

“You two have the strangest comm—”

You and Sherlock replied at the same time.

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“She wasn’t talking about me.”

After a snicker, you stretched out your back and shoulders. You returned your gaze to your two—no, one, Sherlock insisted it was just one—worried friend.

“I’ve told you both before, I don’t like those looks. Now take them back!” you complained.

You dropped your feet to the floor and glanced around the room. Even in the darkness, you could see clothes in designated heaps, sheet music strewn about one corner, and your box of belongings in another—everything neatly organized inside. 

Before a frown could ghost across your lips, you cleared your throat.

“I’m going to shower. And then hopefully find something edible.”

You started walking to the door when John sucked in a breath. 

“I don’t think—”

“I didn’t say I’d look here, John. I’m sure he’s barely eaten and you’ve been living on takeout.”

He smirked and you gave him a lazy smile back.

“I can take care of myself. Now, both of you. Go the fuck to sleep.”

In Sherlock’s bathroom, you turned on the hot water and breathed in a cleansing breath. When the water reached your desired degree of scorching hot, you stepped in with a shiver.

You popped off the cap to his shampoo and breathed in the scent as tears lined your eyes. With quiet sobs, you cleaned your hair of the remaining blood and debris—dismissing the slight sting to your open cuts.

For as many times as you showered in Moriarty’s web, nothing would compare to the feeling of this particular water washing away your sins. Even after you finished cleaning your body, you let it burst through the pipes as it rained down on you.

It warmed you to your core as droplets descended from your eyelashes and chin. The water painted itself alongside the blood and tears that spiraled down the drain. 

All elixirs equal in the eyes of God.

When your breath was heavy, you heard the door open. You sniffled and blinked back your remaining tears, wiping the invisible evidence from your soaking wet cheeks. 

Holding your breath, you waited a moment. But when Sherlock didn’t join you, you cracked a sliver in the shower door and raised your eyebrows at him.

“A little overdressed, aren’t you?”

Wearing his coat and scarf, he clasped his hands behind his back and looked at you with an intense gaze. You turned off the water by his unspoken command and opened the door. 

He held out a towel and you wrapped yourself. With soft eyes, you tried to decipher the message beneath his hard exterior. But nothing came through.

He gestured to your clothes on the counter. You furrowed your brow and glanced back at him. But when he refused to yield to your curiosity, you wrapped your hands on either side of his face. Bringing his face to yours, you pressed your lips to his.

The gateways to your heart burst open with the force of Hell’s violent, endless winds. You, already committed to your fate, happily condemned your soul under the spell of his touch. 

He enveloped you in his embrace. His heart beat to the truth that, at that fragile moment in time, neither of you needed to protect yourselves with games, tricks, or plays. Your unspoken language of layered meanings only needed to communicate one forever

_ silent _

word. You withdrew your lips from his, gazing upon his face through tear-stained—no, water, it was only water—eyelashes. He slowly unfurled the scarf from his neck and draped it across your shoulders. The moment your body reclaimed the fabric, the towel around you descended to the floor.

Eyes never leaving yours, he stroked the side of your face with his thumb.

“Get dressed,” he whispered.

Speechless, you gave him a single nod as he exited the bathroom. 

Leaving you to yourself as the steam prickled across your skin.


	36. First Taste of Oxygen

Sherlock hailed one of the lonely cabs that dared grace the streets of London during the witching hour. You breathed a great sigh of relief as the night air kissed your cheeks, finally reunited with clothes of your choosing once again.

When the taxi arrived, he opened the door for you. But right as you took a step forward, every muscle in your body froze. Holding your breath, you gave him a sideways glance. He gestured to the open seat. But you shook your head at him.

“Where are we going?”

“To eat.”

“No, Sherlock. I-I have to know where we’re going.”

He drew in a breath and gave you a nod. After receiving the address on the Marylebone Road, you slid in the backseat of the taxi. 

Shoulder pressed against the door, you tapped your fingers on your knee as it bounced up and down. Sherlock studied and carefully filed away each of your nervous ticks. The corner of his lip upturned in the slightest smirk when you fidgeted with the front of your scarf and took a deep breath.

Your knee stopped bouncing.

When you arrived at your destination, Sherlock held the door open for you again. But you scrambled out the other side. With a nearly imperceptible sigh, he closed the door and turned to approach the restaurant—completely dark except for a small light glowing from within. 

You narrowed your eyes as he reached for the door.

“I know you’re friendly with the police force, but I don’t think that you can get away with this.” 

However, you raised your eyebrows when you didn’t get to scrutinize his lock picking skills and the door opened upon his command. Sherlock gestured for you to enter. Your stomach grumbled as the scent of your fried salvation wafted through the air.

“Who’s in there?” you asked.

“No one. They were instructed to leave when we arrived.”

“I-I don’t know. I was just going to fend for myself. This all seems…” You rubbed your palms together. “I should go. I should just go.”

“Whatever you want.” He raised his eyebrows.

Your eyes flickered from the ground and back to him.

“Do you really mean that?”

“Of course. I’m not lying.”

“That’s exactly what liars say, Holmes.”

With a smirk, you stepped into the abandoned restaurant. You surveyed the interior, raising your eyebrows at a table by the front. An anonymous evening ghost adorned it with two plates of fish and chips and a single candle in the center.

Before Sherlock could instruct you, you already made your way to a different table in the back. With a smirk, he relocated your food and single offering of ambiance. You sat down in your chosen booth and pressed your back against the wall.

“Exquisite view,” you approved.

He plopped himself next to you.

“Entry points are all visible.”

With a smile, you handed him a chip from your plate. 

“Will you actually eat with me?”

Sherlock accepted your offering and took a bite.

“Good.” You smirked before swiping one from his dish. 

Completely entranced by your food, this was the longest amount of conscious time that you went without a peep. Halfway through your meal, you caught Sherlock examining you. But after narrowing your eyes at him, he softened his gaze.

“How’d you pull this off?” you asked.

“I helped the owner put up some shelves.”

“There’s more to that story.”

You snickered and rested your forearms on the table. He furrowed his brow at you. But you beamed at him.

“Go on. I know you’re eager to show off.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered from the candle flame to you with a side of a shameless smirk. He reached out to rest in his hand on yours. But you instantly retracted it with a hiss. 

Your pupils blew wide open as you jerked away from him. He breathed in a sharp inhale and, glancing downward, removed his hand from your sight. You furiously shook your head.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. I told you, I’m fine.”

You threw one hand into your hair and fidgeted with the side of your plate with the other. Clearing your throat, your eyes bored into the flame of the dwindling candle. Sherlock studied the flame as it engulfed your enlarged pupils. He finally let out the breath he was holding in. 

“We have to talk ab—”

“Jim, yes.” You flashed him a sideways glance and nodded furiously. “I, um. I thought that I had him figured out. Well, I had most of it figured out. He’s the one—”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Your fingers froze on the side of the plate. He readjusted to face you. But you refused to look at him. With the utmost caution, Sherlock set his hand back on the table. When your only response was tightening your jaw, he swallowed.

He carefully inched his hand closer to you. Proving his hypothesis correct, you sprang from your seat and pointed a finger at him.

“Don’t. We are not doing this. I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. Stop lying. Stop lying _to me_.”

“I’m not lying! Look at me. I’m fine. I slept, I showered, I ate. All evidence points to fine.”

“You won’t let me, you won’t even let John touch you. How are we...how are we supposed to—”

“I just kissed you back at the apartment, or flat, or whatever.”

“Because _you_ did.”

Your leg started bouncing as you looked away from him. You shook your head a few times. But after a sharp inhale, you glared at him.

“Drop it. Now.”

“No.”

He rose from his seat but you took a few steps backward. Fire burning behind your eyes, you pointed your finger at him and growled.

“I said we’re not doing this.”

“What happened? What did he do to you?”

“No.”

“Where did he—”

“Stop! Stop it NOW! Stop asking questions! You’re suffocating me! Just like he did every night.”

Sherlock froze. Your chest started palpating with short, shallow breaths. Muscles calcified in panic, your eyes flickered downwards as if to survey your body. Sherlock’s chest tightened.

“Did, did he…”

“No.” You closed your eyes and swallowed before looking him in the eye again.

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t sleep next to him. Let alone...so I begged him to, well, you know...instead. Because we...because you and I…”

You looked away and shuddered. But after a deep breath. you rolled out your neck and stretched your fingers. You adjusted your stance, crossing your arms and leaning into one hip. 

“Jim and Clint have known each other—”

“Stop.”

“This is important, Sherlock. He’s known—”

But he gave you a look that forced your jaw shut. He closed his eyes for a breath then bore them into you. Your senses were flooded by the myriad of information that transmitted your way.

“You would have died,” he growled. “The _only_ reason we knew, the only reason I knew where you were, was because _Moriarty_ told us. Another one of his damned riddles.”

“I didn’t know where I was,” you whispered. “I had no way of telling you.”

“And would you have?” He tilted his head to the side. “Not as a game, not as a set up. Would you have told us where you were? Without having your own plan in place?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. But, per his conjecture, you remained completely silent.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Brilliant deduction, detective.”

Balling his hands into fists, Sherlock looked down and hissed an exhale through gritted teeth. Exquisitely trained, the weight of your fear washed away in the presence of his fury. He took a step forward and pointed at you. But you refused to play part in his display and remained steadfast in your stance.

“You,” he spat, “you did this to me. ”

“I’ve never made you do anything, Holmes. Not even God herself is that powerful.”

“I don’t know who you are. But even worse, I don’t know who I am when I’m around you.”

You narrowed your eyes and jabbed a finger at him.

“Stop. Making. This. About. _You_.”

“Your _husband_ is fortunate that he met his end already.”

“Because you think yourself my hero? Would have slayed the dragon for me?”

“Because he was _right._ ”

“About what? The lying, manipulative witch that I am? I told you—”

“Because I am a high functioning _sociopath_! One who had to watch you leave me over and over and OVER again!”

Your heart skipped a beat. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead as a pained breath rumbled from his chest.

“People conclude that I have no heart. But he knew it, Moriarty knows it, and you and John of ALL PEOPLE should know!”

He returned the fire of his gaze to your eyes.

“I am no psychopath.”

“No, you are not.”

The words barely escaped your lips. Sherlock took another step forward. He outstretched his hand to touch the side of your face. But you latched your palm to his wrist and clamped down. 

Your jaw quivered from the unforgiving tension you applied to it. But he took no heed to your warning and refused to relinquish your gaze.

“He may have tried to burn the heart out of you. But it just caught fire. And now, well, now you ignite anything you touch.”

He leaned in closer. “...including me.”

You tossed his arm aside and tilted your chin. His lips were a breath away from yours. 

Your nasal cavities filled with the scent of cedar, citrus, and senseless emotion. You, however, were unable to deduce whose pheromones emitted the addicting concoction.

“Well,” you breathed, “if it’s so torturous to be in my incendiary glory, then I’ll just do what I do best—according to your words—and leave.”

“Don’t you dare. We can go back to hating each other, but don’t you DARE leave, leave me _again_.”

“And this? This isn’t hating each other?”

“It’s not and you know it.”

He brought his hands to the delicate air that surrounded your face. As if by command, every muscle in your body tensed. But they hung on either side of you like Atlas would hold the world.

Through gritted teeth and ironclad conviction.

“You do not need to feign ignorance because I do not seek power over you.”

He narrowed the space between his palms and your hair. You closed your eyes and sucked in a breath. Perhaps, just perhaps, if you opened them again, you would be back in bed with the Devil.

You would be back in America.

You would be back in Hell.

You would be back to playing anyone but yourself.

Because as Sherlock stood before you, the only question you could ask yourself was…

_Can I..._

“Let me,” he whispered.

Your eyes flew open. With the candle now extinguished, the only light that rained down on you was the glow of the moon burning from his eyes. 

“Let…”

Palms meet skin.

“Me.”

Lips meet lips.

You tangled your fingers in his hair and breathed.

_Breathed, breathed, breathed._

Like you never have before.

For you spent years growing gills. You learned to breathe underwater in a world that suffocated the life from you. It punished your desire for anything but what you were given by squeezing every pained breath from your dying lips.

And now…

Now you know what air tastes like.

It tastes like home.

It tastes like trust.

It tastes like him.

_How will you ever go back to using your gills?_


	37. An Act of God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead. Musical inspiration for this chapter is [I Found by Amber Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj6V_a1-EUA).

Lips tangled with yours, Sherlock activated your shapeshifting abilities with remarkable skill—transforming you, once again, from burden to blessing. He threw his fingers into your hair and soaked in the texture of your strands, inhaling the scent of cedar and you.

While he would never admit to taking John’s advice once, let alone twice, Sherlock would always walk you back from the gates of Hell. For he, at that moment, unknowingly vowed to always give you a reason to stay.

Lips never leaving yours, he led you back outside to the cool night air. He wrapped one hand around your face and the other across your waist. It was his futile, but necessary, attempt to protect you from the harshness of the world.

And that of your life. 

As the moon smiled down on the heartbroken friends in love, Sherlock’s skin prickled with an eager shiver once exposed to the night air. Any senseless person might have credited his bodily response to the cold.

But he knew better.

He always did.

God heard the yearnings of his heart and sent a taxi across the empty streets. With a wave of his arm, he commanded the vehicle to a halt. Sherlock reached for the door handle. But you, to his delight, beat him to it and swung the door open. 

You yanked him inside by the lapels of his coat, breath heaving as you continued to adorn his lips with grateful kisses. He turned his head away from you just long enough to bark your intended destination to the driver.

All necessary instruction out of the way, Sherlock redirected his entire focus back to you. He caressed the nape of your neck with his palm. As he pulled your face back to his, you swung your knee over his lap to straddle him like you did a few sleeps ago.

Sherlock felt an aching twist in his stomach. He dismissed the peculiar sensation as he dipped his tongue into your mouth, worshiping your shameless display of emotion with the same conviction as a religious fool.

If only he knew it was the feeling of his soul weeping.

For you were no dream, trick, nor drugged hallucination.

No.

You were viscerally real in a way that no science could ever explain.

But, for once, he didn’t need it to.

You freed his lips from yours and gasped a great gulp of air. Pressing your forehead against his, your chest heaved with the ache of missing him. The rate of your breathing did not go unnoticed by him.

“It, it was never supposed to be like this,” you whispered.

“I know.”

You latched your palms to either side of his face and kissed him once again. Using the lapels of your leather jacket for leverage, Sherlock yanked you closer as he cursed the restraints of this physical world. 

You tugged on his hair as an invitation for him to lean his head back. He willingly obliged as you garnished his beautiful neck with a unique mixture of kisses, nips, and words left unspoken. Your heart fluttered at the pleased grumbles that vibrated beneath your lips.

When Sherlock Holmes first met you, he deduced a myriad of outcomes when it came to handling the specimen before him. How to help you, manipulate you, understand you, trick you, defeat you, and, yes, even get rid of you.

But none of those mathematical calculations ever included the possibility of _loving_ you.

He was right (as expected) that there _was_ always something he missed.

And you were, by far, the most brilliant anomaly in all of his years of scientific discoveries.

When the taxi pulled up to 221B Baker Street, you and Sherlock fumbled up the stairs in a violent storm of heartfelt desire.

John, finally wielding his saintly magic on himself for once, fell into a dead sleep mere moments before your arrival.

You freed Sherlock from his coat as he unwrapped the scarf from your neck. Your fingers trembled as you wrestled with the buttons on his shirt—heart and body eternally grateful to receive the opportunity to undress this man once again.

As your physical dexterity began to wane, Sherlock led you through the mournful mess of organized chaos across his floorboards. Next to his bed, your bodies separated for a mere moment. You yanked your jacket off your shoulders and he kicked off his shoes. 

When you successfully freed your feet from your boots, he approached you again. He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you close. You gasped in praise as your chest bumped against him.

Appreciating the glow of the moonlight on your skin, he brushed the hair out of your face as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. To his great relief, when he opened them again, you were still there.

His heart broke under the grief that he did not permit in your absence. But, unwilling to be weighed down by sentiment, he took ahold of your wrist. 

Ready to lead you to bed as you drowsily requested of him hours before, Sherlock leaned over to lie before you. But you sucked in a breath and threw yourself to the mattress first. Fisting his shirt, you yanked him on top of you in a single toppling of control.

He barely caught his fall by placing his hands on either side of your face. Blinking a few times, he studied your expression. He would never forgive himself if you only exhibited such behavior out of an instinctual, survivalist need to be submissive.

“Are you—”

“Touch me.” 

Sherlock lost himself in the depths of your eyes for a brief moment. But after a deep breath, he followed your instruction by tracing the side of your face with his fingertips. With the utmost precision, he applied light pressure from your cheekbone and along your jawline. You closed your eyes and drew in a sharp inhale through your nose.

When he reached your neck, however, he paused. You opened your eyes once again.

“Please.”

“I-I can’t.”

A soft smile ghosting across your lips, you tenderly placed your hand over his. You guided his touch down your neck. But when you sucked in a breath and tensed, he stopped. Your eyes pleaded to him and he removed his hand, hypothesizing a different approach would tame your aching soul. 

Instead, he lowered himself to his forearms and you placed your hands across his back. He gave you a chaste kiss. But, unsatisfied with that as his sole focal point of affection, he grazed his lips across your jawline before placing another kiss below your ear. You tilted your head to the side, exposing more of the previously cursed terrain to his touch. 

Sherlock continued to trail kisses along your neck. To steady himself, he placed his hand on your waist. He gradually allowed his precision to melt from cautious to caring. 

You weren’t a specimen to be studied anymore. But a beauty to be worshipped. And he, for the first time in his life, was willing to explore the bounds of spirituality if it meant doing so with you.

With your eyes closed, tears slowly prickled through to adorn your eyelashes. His hand soaked in the gentle shake of your body, inciting him to raise his head to look at your face once again.

“Thank you,” you breathed.

Your eyes flew open. He traced the side of your face with the back of his hand as a gentle smile crept across your lips. You drew him closer to you. And, with a violent kiss, you broke the unspoken spell of caution between you.

Your passion was instantly met with that of his own. You traced your hands under his shirt as a silent request for him to undress. He willingly obliged. 

With his shirt abandoned in the corner, Sherlock helped you peel away the layers of clothing that he gave you only an hour ago. You playfully kissed and nipped any part of him you could as cloth left skin. A pleased hum graced your lips as you deftly unbuttoned his trousers, tugging on the sides to request that he finish the job.

Both bodies free of any disguise, you brought your palm to his length, stroking him with an appreciative heart. He closed his eyes and buried his head in your chest, adorning your breasts with grateful kisses and nibbles as you continued to pleasure him. You smirked at the satisfied moans that rumbled from his throat. 

Eventually needing respite from your generosity, he leaned back on his heels with a grunt. He blinked a few times to recalibrate his senses. But when you wiggled your shoulders with a pleased grin, he became determined to feel the same satisfaction across his own face.

He planted a firm kiss on your solar plexus as he raked his fingers down your sides, pulling you closer to him. You gasped in surprise at his boldness. However, he continued to pepper an experimental combination of kisses and licks down your body.

To his surprise, when his lips closed in on his intended destination between your legs, you sucked in a breath. You fisted the sheets as your muscles tensed and you dug your heels into the mattress. 

Unwilling to accrue debt that you could not repay, you instinctively tried to squeeze your legs together. His knees, already dutifully slotted between you, prevented you from completing the act of protection.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered back to your face as you bit your lip and shook your head. He closed his eyes and gave you a single nod, burying the flash of remorse he felt for his eager thoughtlessness.

Intent on making it up to you, he instead covered your body with his own. Propping his forearms on either side of your face, he brought you into a compassionate kiss. His heart skipped a beat at your quick forgiveness.

Giving his hard drive permission to shut down, Sherlock instead called upon the musician’s portion of his brain. His fingers danced along your skin as they inched closer to your peaking desire. When you didn’t retract from his advances, he finally relieved your body of its building need.

A quick study, he smirked when his technique inspired your back to arch in a standing ovation to his dexterity. Rolling your head back with fluttering eyelids, you accompanied his composition with your own melodies of grateful moans and whimpers. 

Finally, when he was so kind as to insert his fingers into you, you latched your palm to the side of his face. Eyes wide with praise, your chest tightened as you bit your lip to stifle a gasp from escaping your throat. You wouldn’t dare let John pay for your pleasure. So instead, your vocal chords had to settle for wordless whispers as Sherlock delighted in the efficiency of his work. 

To your benefit, the upturn of his shameless smirk was only outmatched by the divine curvature of his fingers. Panting to the rhythm of his pace, it didn’t take long for you to, to, to

“Oh God, I can’t…”

But now that your body and words were finally in perfect harmony, you succumbed to his heartfelt apology as your walls pulsated around his fingers. Pleasure soaked you to the core of your being. When your orgasm subsided, you pulled his lips back to yours in thanks. 

Maybe one day, you would let him taste you. Just maybe.

Yet, you were too preoccupied with the joy of his lips on yours to dwell. Already craving him, once again, you took it upon yourself to guide him inside you.

You swiped his tip along your folds, inciting a grunt from him and audible inhale from you. But, knowing your satisfaction would never be quenched until you fully enveloped him in your wetness, you granted him access. 

A true scientist at heart, Sherlock expanded the bounds of time as he pressed inward—appreciating every stretch of the inner world that you reserved exclusively for him the moment he entered your life.

For while you fought tooth and nail against the will of Fate, no power could ever separate the lovers whose connection defied the need for language, proximity, and even the spoken truth.

When he was fully immersed in you, Sherlock straightened one arm to give himself more leverage. The heat of his breath mingled with yours as the pace of his thrusts accelerated without intention or care.

You rocked your hips along with him, never removing your eyes from his as you dug your nails into his back. His body was now a blank canvas for you to leave as many clues of your affections as you wished. Fortunately for both of you, your secrets could finally come out in the open.

In no mood to experiment or play games, Sherlock’s pace rapidly reached one that would guarantee results. You gasped as pleasured cries fluttered from your throat. He was certain that you would also be the death of him. But he would never dare give you the satisfaction of the knowledge. 

Not with his words at least. 

His fingers tightened as he tried, tried, tried…

Your walls clenched around him and continued to squeeze in grateful praise.

_Thank fucking God._

With a sound that was equal gasp and grunt, Sherlock buried his face in the crook of your neck as he rode out your orgasm with that of his own. At that moment, he couldn’t help but wonder why it always took you two so _fucking_ long to entangle yourselves in the inevitable. 

But he would gladly engage in the dance of minds, hearts, or whatever abhorrently unscientific chemistry he had with you...

...as long as you _willingly_ stayed with him.

With one, two, three more thrusts, he gave you all that his body had to offer you. Your chests heaved in shameless dissonance; now that your bodies no longer needed to maintain any sense of rhythm or synchronicity. 

Your palm graced his sweat stained neck and you drew his face to you once again. You brought his lips to yours, kissing him as if trying to remind him that, no, this was not hate. But something else entirely.

_Something unknown, unspoken, and otherworldly._

And by any logic, reasoning, or deduction, it was never supposed to happen. Certainly not by the longings of your heart nor the expectations of his mind.

But, for both of your sorry sakes, it was a good thing that God knew better than Sherlock Holmes. 

For it would now take a cosmic act of Her own doing to rip you two apart.

Blessed be your name. 

_Blessed be your name._


	38. Under Protection of Ignorance

You woke up _again_ to the grating sound of Sherlock’s phone vibrating on the nightstand. Draped across his bare chest, your fingers fumbled around in an attempt to silence the intrusive device. But Sherlock, without opening his eyes, shoved it a few inches out of your reach.

“If you’re not going to answer it, turn it off,” you groaned into his neck. “That’s seven texts and three calls now.”

Your criticism only received a displeased rumble from his chest. However, it was soon echoed by even more buzzing from his phone.

You rested your chin on his sternum. Feeling the heat of your gaze, Sherlock tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Who is it? Your secret wife?” you teased.

His head fell back to the pillow with a groan.

“Too soon?” You cocked an eyebrow.

His phone finally stopped buzzing; a brief respite from its desperate plea for attention. However, the silence was short-lived. It resumed its demands almost immediately. You rested your ear to his chest and sighed.

“If you’re not going to answer that, you can at least answer me.”

Sherlock dragged his hands across his face. You started tracing shapes along his skin, appreciating the goosebumps you left in your wake.

“I’m serious. Why won’t you tell me anything about that fire extinguisher? How did you know about the diamond and the gum of all things?”

“It’s not important.”

He tangled his fingers in your hair and guided you to him for a kiss. While it wasn’t effective at silencing you, the act did inspire his phone to shut up for a moment.

“Bullshit,” you breathed onto his lips. “Every detail counts when it comes to you two.”

But Sherlock’s only reply was to kiss you deeper and trail his hands across your naked back.

“Don’t you dare try to use sex to distract me.” You nipped his bottom lip. “It’s a game you will not win.”

You swung your leg over his hips to straddle him. At that particular moment, you regretted his decision to, unlike you, clothe his lower half before falling asleep earlier that morning.

You adorned each side of his face with your fingers; tracing his cheekbones and eventually entangling your hands in his hair. As you leaned back down to kiss him, he dug his fingernails into your hips to press you into him.

“Good morning to you too,” you breathed. “Now confess your sins, detective. What are you hiding from me?”

But Sherlock was relieved of answering you _again_ when his phone started demanding the attention of everyone in the room.

“OH MY GOD.” You threw your head back.

Before he could interfere, you yanked the mobile from the nightstand and answered. 

“How many morons does it take to deduce that Sherlock Holmes is uninterested in engaging with you? Stop calling.”

You graciously adjusted your hips over him to bring yourself upright, tossing your hair over your shoulder.

“This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Who is this and where is Sherlock?”

You handed the phone to its rightful owner.

“Surprise! It’s for you.”

The moment Sherlock’s hand came into contact with the device, he hung up and tossed it back on the nightstand. Before he had to tolerate another word from either of you, he yanked your wrist to pull you back to him.

When your lips were only a breath away from his, you tilted your head upwards to deny him the satisfaction of your touch.

“No, no,” you teased.

You propped yourself upright again and raised your eyebrows at him.

“He probably has a case for you. Hopefully not involving biological weapons this time. Why aren’t you leaping at the chance to chew on this one?”

Sherlock took a sharp inhale and glanced away from you and his phone; it was destined to go off again at any moment. You gently shook your head with concern shining in your eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

Your stomach twisted in knots. 

“Leave the lying to me, Holmes. What are you hiding?”

He looked at you with a blank expression. You rolled your eyes and leaned back to kiss him. With one hand tangled in his curls, you outstretched the other to the nightstand to snatch his phone.

But you furrowed your brow and opened your eyes when your fingertips only met the cool surface of the nightstand. You tilted your head back to take in his shameless smirk as he waved his mobile at you.

“What was that about distractions?” he snickered.

Mouth slightly open, you brushed your hair out of your face with a huff. As if on cue, his phone started buzzing again. You bolted upright and dragged your hands over your face.

“Will you please just answer that!”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and, to your surprise, obliged your request.

“I’m not interested,” he commanded lowly.

“Fina—”

He hung up.

Seeing your agitated expression, he quickly sent a text before banishing the device to the nightstand once again. Tracing circles across his chest, you cocked an eyebrow.

“What did you tell them?”

“I told John to say that I have the flu when they get here”

You threw your head back with a groan, raking your fingernails down your neck. 

“You are impossible. You know that won’t work.”

He shrugged. “He’s a doctor and they’re idiots.”

You narrowed your eyes at him before lunging to grab his phone. Finding you all too predictable, Sherlock beat you to it and threw it across the room.

When you scoffed, he raised his eyebrows.

“Am I not interesting enough to you?” he hummed.

He outlined circles along your hips with his thumbs. But you looked to the side and shook your head.

“Considering the fact that you’re acting completely unlike yourself, whatever texts you’re hiding from me are far more intriguing.”

You shifted your weight to untangle yourself from him. But he planted one hand firmly on your thigh and yanked your wrist with the other. With a gasp, your face was once again a breath away from him, barely catching your fall as your lips hovered over his.

“Let me change that,” he whispered.

After a sigh, you grumbled onto his lips with a kiss.

“Fine. But you better be done impressing me by the time they get here.”

He nodded as he continued to kiss you.

“And,” you gasped. “I know what you’re doing. This conversation isn’t over.”

But Sherlock trailed his hands down your back. Delighting in every surface of your curves, he used his grip to drive your pelvis into him.

_Effectively ending the conversation...for now._

However, your pleasure was not permitted to last when an intrusive pounding on the front door rang throughout 221B. 

“SHERLOCK! LET US IN!” Greg demanded.

The dear detective inspector, being one step ahead of the consulting detective _for once_ , was already waiting outside. He and a willing volunteer were prepared to acquire Sherlock’s attention by any means necessary.

“I hate your day job.” You rested your forehead on Sherlock’s with a sigh.

“It’s not my—”

“Is that not your boss demanding you come in for work?”

“He’s NOT my—”

You could hear John open the door.

“Lestrade, what are you—”

“We’re here for a drugs bust, John. Get out of the way or I’ll have you arrested.”

“What the...SHERLOCK!” John cried out.

Placing your hands on Sherlock’s chest, you rose upright and snickered.

“I was wrong," you confessed.

He raised his eyebrows.

“He’s not your boss. He’s your jealous boyfriend.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his head back to the pillow. With a delighted smirk, you tousled your hair, letting him enjoy the view of your glowing beauty for a moment longer.

“I better get dressed or he might plant evidence to spend more time with you.”

You winked at him. But the moment both of your eyes were open, so was his bedroom door.

With Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade standing on the other side.

“Oh my G—” he shielded his eyes from your naked form. “Sherlock! Bloody hell!”

You wiggled your eyebrows at Sherlock. 

“Oops. Too late.” 

Placing your palms to his chest, you leaned over him just enough to protect a hopeless, stuttering Greg from the very tips of your breasts. You snickered, soaking in the reactions of the two men. 

“Now will you give your friends what they want?” you sang.

Sherlock buried his face in his hands with a groan. “They’re not my friends.”

“Yeah, just like me.”

Greg, currently muttering profuse apologies to you, God Almighty, and himself, tried to back up. But his embarrassment only burrowed deeper when he ran right into Anderson. Scotland Yard’s finest idiot stood frozen in place and utterly dumbstruck at the sight before him.

“Well?” you pressed your cause with a gentle tilt of your hips.

With a sigh, Sherlock finally dragged his hands over his face. But, upon seeing Anderson’s shameless gaze upon your even more shameless nudity, he bolted upright—throwing you over the other side of the bed (and out of view) with a graceless thud.

“You asshole!” you squeaked as he slammed the door in Anderson’s face.

By the time you sprang back to your feet, Sherlock was right next to you. He grabbed your elbow and bore his eyes into yours.

“Get dressed NOW,” he growled.

You yanked your arm from his grasp and wrinkled your nose at him.

“And YOU are not the boss of me or my body. I’m not putting any clothes on until you tell me what the hell you’re hiding from me.”

“We are not having this discussion right now.”

His eyes flickered from you to the shadow of Anderson’s feet still glued to their spot outside the doorway. With an agitated grunt, Sherlock started looking for your clothes.

“Fine.” You rolled your eyes. 

He furrowed his brow at your premature surrender.

But he sucked in a breath when you yanked the sheet from his bed. Eyes screaming sass, you wrapped it around you and raised your eyebrows. He pressed his palm to his forehead and groaned.

“Not enough.” 

“Neither was the information you gave me.”

You started walking to the door. But he stamped down on the end of the sheet. With a smirk and a shrug, you willingly let it cascade to the floorboards. You spun back to face him and put your hands on your hips.

“I don’t think you understand, Holmes. I will go out there completely naked unless you start telling me what the fuck is going on.”

Sherlock pressed the heels of his palms to this forehead.

“You are utterly insufferable.”

You smirked and flitted to the door. Biting your lip, you posed your body to emphasize your greatest features.

“It’ll probably traumatize John. But I have faith we will pull through.”

As if the saint heard you himself, his voice carried through from the other side of the door. You turned your head to the opaque barrier and furrowed your brow. Because, to your surprise, John wasn’t actually talking to you.

“Are you, are you waiting outside the door just to see her walk out naked?”

“No, I was, er, searching this beaker!”

“She’s my friend, you bloody pervert!”

_WHAP._

Your wide eyes snapped back to Sherlock, mouth hanging slightly open at the sound of John’s fist to Anderson’s face.

...and the other side of his face to the door. 

Taking full advantage of your shock, Sherlock threw your clothes at you as he put a shirt on and changed into his trousers. With a huff, you got dressed. But not without glaring at him the whole time.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t want John to get arrested for assaulting a police officer...a second time”

Grateful that you were finally putting some clothes on, Sherlock didn’t bother to tell you that no one would care about the brilliant bruises that were already developing on Anderson’s idiotic face.

You swung the door open and strutted straight to the freezer. Pulling out a liver, you tossed it to Anderson.

“Thank you,” he muttered.

Sherlock glared at you. But you only shrugged with confusion on your face.

“Your, your scars,” Anderson tittered. “They’re very impressive.”

You scowled at him. 

“Breasts. They’re called breasts.” 

Your eyes flickered between Anderson and Sherlock. You let out a sigh at Sherlock’s unspoken words of _I told you so._ Wrinkling your nose, you walked past Anderson with a final message for him. 

“You really are an idiot.” 

You strode over to join Sherlock and John at the center of the sitting room. Greg cleared his throat as you crossed your arms and leaned into one hip.

“Alright then,” he started. “Now that everyone is, er, decent...”

You failed to stifle a laugh. He dragged his hand over his face and eyed Sherlock.

“You know, this would have been a lot easier if you just answered your bloody phone.”

Anderson snickered from his exile in the kitchen.

“I mean, I wouldn’t have—”

John glared at him. “Oh, piss off, Anderson!”

“The only reason anyone would call you,” Sherlock barked, “would be to confirm brain death. It would only take two words from your mouth before they arrived to harvest your organs.”

You flashed him a special sparkle in your eye.

_Impressive._

He smirked.

_Aren’t I always?_

“Erm, as I was saying…” Greg continued.

But Sherlock snapped his gaze to him and snarled.

“No, as I told you, I am not interested.”

“He requested you specifically.”

Furrowing your brow, you glanced at John. But he only shrugged, just as clueless as you.

Sherlock waved his hand and started walking away.

“I will not waste my time entertaining the needs of an ostentatious billionaire and his equally petulant, but far stupider son.”

“Sherlock!” Greg released an exasperated sigh before waving a photo in the air. “That _son_ is being held for ransom.”

You leaned over to take a look at the picture. But Sherlock spun around and shoved it to Greg’s chest with a growl.

“And he’s a fully grown adult who’s unfortunate enough to have an inconveniently frugal father. Tell him to pay up if he wants to continue letting his darling boy drain his coffers on drugs and bargained love.”

“Who are these men?” You glanced between John and Greg.

Sherlock bore his eyes into the back of the photograph. His jaw ticked. But he didn’t have to move when Greg’s hand fell to his side, taking the evidence along with it.

“Charles Kent and his son, the sole heir to his fortune, Henry.”

Greg handed the photo to you. It was in your hands before Sherlock could intercept the exchange. John furrowed his brow at the image of the young Kent trapped in, what appeared to be, a meat locker. 

His eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion, contrasting the haunting pale of his complexion. You could almost feel him shivering from the look in his eyes. He would certainly freeze if not alleviated of his unfortunate circumstances.

“He likes to eat?” you asked to confirm your suspicions.

“He’s, er, known for his dining habits,” Greg cleared his throat. “I’m actually surprised that Sherlock didn’t mention it in his line of insults.”

You clenched the edges of the photograph and sucked in a breath. Gritting your teeth, you slowly raised your gaze to the secret keeper Holmes.

“You fucking asshole,” you growled at him.

You shoved the picture to his chest and stomped to his room to get your gun. John furrowed his brow at Sherlock. But the detective only swallowed without another word. 

When you reemerged, Donovan dashed into the flat waving a camera.

“I got it!” she panted. “I forgot it last time.”

But her eyes went wide at the sight of Anderson icing his eye in the kitchen with frozen liver. She ran over to inspect his injuries.

“Oh my God. What happened to you?” She shot daggers with her eyes at Sherlock. “What did you do?”

You shoved the magazine into your gun with a snarl as you also stared down the detective, eyes burning with misguided rage.

“You can thank John fucking Watson for that masterpiece,” you answered lowly.

You tucked your gun out of sight before walking next to John. You propped your elbow on his shoulder and leaned over. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“I know that, once again, I’m missing whatever just happened between the two of you. But, Eve, promise me one thing?”

You furrowed your brow. “Anything for you, John.”

“I don’t ever want to see you naked.”

You snickered. 

“Don’t worry, my friend. It would be like stripping for a brother. And that’s not my kink.” 

You gave him an unsettling smile.

“That moron,” you pointed to Anderson, “has a better chance of seeing me naked again than anyone else here.”

You narrowed your eyes at Sherlock. “How dare you try to protect me by keeping me ignorant.”

He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath before looking down.

Greg furrowed his brow and glanced at John.

“What just happened?”

“You get used to it.” John shrugged.

Taking that as your cue to relieve his body of your presence, you took a step towards Sherlock and rammed your finger into his chest. 

“Where is he keeping him? You have it all figured out already don’t you? Tell me where he is.”

But Sherlock could only silently stare back at you as he clenched his jaw. 

If only your heart was a little more open at that moment. You would have been able to read the message underneath his hardened gaze.

_Please don’t leave. And especially not alone._

“Fine.” You threw your hand into the air and spun around. “I’ll find him myself.”

With twelve stomps of your boots, you were out of the flat. The only evidence of your presence was the ringing of the door slamming shut as Sherlock closed his eyes.

John shook his head.

“What the hell did you do?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open as he shook his hands in the air.

“Am I the ONLY ONE who has the capacity to think around here?” 

He darted out the door to chase after you.

You were truly an idiot sometimes.

Greg scrunched his face in confusion as he looked at John. But the doctor only cleared his throat and shook his head. After a pained breath, John gestured that they better go after the two idiots in love.

Greg gave him a single nod and they set off after you and the genius detective.

When the flat was empty of its actual residents, Donovan wrinkled her nose at Anderson.

“See her naked... _again_?” 

He tried to hide behind the thawing liver. But to no avail.

With a huff, she yanked him upright and dragged him out of the flat.

On Baker Street, Sherlock grumbled to himself as he followed you, rolling his eyes when you flipped him off and refused to look at him. 

Of course, none of the dull minds at the flat had any clue what was set in motion the moment that Henry Kent was chosen as the victim of this absurd crime. For a brief moment, Sherlock wondered how peaceful it would feel to be oblivious to the impending storm. 

But he quickly forced himself back to reality. He couldn’t dwell on the protection of ignorance. You, he, and one other soul knew what the Hell was waiting for you when you arrived at the vile tundra of that meat locker.

After all, its third circle was for gluttons.

And the Devil was eager to put you through his fires once again.


	39. Are You There God? It's Me, Eve Riley.

After weaving through a crowd of tourists, you glanced over your shoulder to confirm you lost your grumbling shadow. 

With a smirk, you faced forward and took a deep breath. You blinked a few times, realizing only now that you had absolutely no clue where to begin your search for the freezing man.

You passed by an alleyway when an annoyingly familiar hand wrapped around your elbow and yanked you off the sidewalk. 

“You’re being an idiot,” Sherlock growled.

You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“John may tolerate your verbal abuse. But I will not.”

You spun around to escape his gaze. But Sherlock grabbed your wrist. In one swift motion, your back was against the ancient brick. He pressed his hand above your ear and leaned in.

“You’re letting your emotion rule your mind. _Again._ ”

“And what does that mean you’re doing?”

“Sparing the world from your stupidity.”

“You think yourself a hero? Justifying that you’re saving me from myself? Then tell me this, detective. Is this protection...”

You glanced at his hand. He could feel the warmth of your breath kiss his skin before you redirected your piercing gaze to his eyes.

“Or possession? What do you deduce?”

His jaw ticked. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock removed his palm from the building and stepped back. He bore his eyes into the asphalt as you flung yourself from the brick.

“That’s what I thought.”

“I’m not trying to control you. I’m, I’m so—”

You held up your hand and glared at him.

“I’m completely uninterested in your apologies. The only thing I want to hear from you is where this guy is so I can get this over with.”

“I haven’t solved it yet.”

“Really? Too distracted this morning.” You crossed your arms. “You disappoint me, Holmes. Perhaps you are as ordinary as the rest of them.”

“YET. I haven’t solved it _yet._ Don’t pander to my arrogance.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were as good as you claimed.”

“I…” He raised his hands and drew in a deep breath. “I know what you’re doing.”

“No, you don’t know anything.”

You turned to leave him alone in that damned alley. But your heart jumped into your throat at the sight of John. He pursed his lips and crossed his arms. Right behind him, Greg rubbed the back of his neck as his eyes flickered between you and Sherlock.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” John scrutinized.

“Into the arms of one of my many lovers.”

You started to stomp past him. But before you could, John put a firm hand on your shoulder to effectively stop you in your tracks.

“He may tolerate your psychopathically sexually aggressive behavior. But I will not.”

“John...” You latched your palm to his wrist. “Get your hand off me.”

He bore his eyes into yours. But when you silently confirmed that you wouldn’t walk away from him, he obliged your command.

You took a step back and bumped into Sherlock—who apparently managed to narrow the distance between you during your exchange with John. With a hard swallow, you leaned forward to peel your body from his. He put his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes at you.

Tapping his foot, John glanced between his emotionally blinded friends.

“Are you two done with your theatrics? Because there’s a man _freezing_ to death as we speak and you,” he pointed to Sherlock, “are supposed to prevent that from happening.”

“It’s a trap.” Sherlock’s jaw ticked.

But John only rolled his eyes. 

“Of course it’s a damn trap. There’s only one person behind all of your high profile cases. But this behavior,” he pointed between the two of you, “is only going to end in murder. And not the fun kind that I know you both like.”

“He’s only getting in my way,” you growled through gritted teeth. “Keeps treating me like I’m made of glass. But I am not a treasure to lock away in a tower because I am not WEAK. I can handle myself.”

You glared at Sherlock. But John brought your attention back to him with a few aggressive snaps of his fingers.

“Hey! I have had to watch you almost die on me not once, but TWICE now. So _forgive us_ if we are concerned for your safety when you _clearly_ are not.”

You scrunched your face at him. Closing his eyes, John put his hands on his hips and shook his head. He drew in a deep breath before looking back at you with a softer gaze.

“I know you’re not used to it, but we care. Even if he has the rudest, most moronic way of showing it at times.”

You bit your lip and twisted the ball of your foot into the asphalt. Sherlock sucked in a breath and you could practically feel him tense behind you.

_Practically._

John let out an exasperated sigh.

“Can you two just pretend to be doctors for a day and focus on saving a life instead of whatever the hell is happening between you?”

Blinking a few times, you tilted your head back to stare at the sky. You soaked in the feeling of the rays on your skin. After a deep breath, you gave John a single nod. You turned your head to Sherlock. But he only bore his eyes into John.

You elbowed Sherlock with generous force. His lip twitched with a grunt.

“ _Fine_ ,” he spat.

John gave Greg a nod. Taking that as his rightful cue to _finally_ get started, he led you to a squad car and opened the back door. Sherlock grumbled and stood on the curb of the sidewalk to hail a taxi.

You rolled your eyes and jumped into the back seat with John. Greg, with more relief than he thought he could ever experience, started driving you to the abduction site.

“He doesn’t even know where we’re going,” you muttered.

“I just sent him the address.” John tucked away his mobile.

Knee bouncing in an anxious flurry, you bit your lip and shook your head as you looked out the window.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

You looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

“You shouldn’t.”

He tilted his head to the side. But you gently shook your head as you avoided his gaze.

“I’m a bad friend, John. You deserve better. You both do.”

He pursed his lips and nodded. Then John shifted in his seat to face you and outstretched his arms. You furrowed your brow at the gesture. But, unperturbed by your mistrust, he curled his fingers inward as a request for you to accept his offering.

“It’s a hug. I promise it won’t kill you.”

You inched across the seat and wrapped your arms around him. Your muscles felt like they were carved of marble. But after a deep breath, you succumbed to his embrace. It was both delightful and terrifying. When you pulled away, you leaned next to Greg in the driver’s seat.

“I’m Eve by the way,” you sang.

Unsure of how close you should be to him (for a variety of reasons), Greg's fingers tensed around the steering wheel.

“Yeah, I, er, I figured.”

“Brilliant deduction, detective.”

You beamed at him and patted his chest before retreating to the back seat. Kicking your feet on the leather, you leaned backward to rest your head in John’s lap. He raised his eyebrows but ultimately lifted his hands to accept you.

With a sigh, you placed your hands over your stomach and cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“I think I should pick a new last name.”

“Like Holmes?” he laughed.

You covered your face and snickered.

“No, John. He and I are just friends.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. But, with his judgment out of sight, you dragged your hands down your face to peek at John over your fingertips. 

“But you and I, well, we’re family. It’s the only explanation for how you manage to tolerate me so much.”

You gave him a hopeful smile. “Maybe I could be a Watson someday.”

“I think someday has long passed.”

You smirked at him with a grateful heart and stared out the window for the rest of the ride, wondering what Sherlock was putting together about the case in his solitude.

Finally in silence, Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the window as the city raced across his field of vision. He sucked in a breath and tried to gather his focus. But his mind could only chew on the repeating question that he asked John long ago.

_Would caring about you actually help save you?_

He blinked firmly and shook his head. It was an ineffectual line of questioning. But not because he was uninterested in the philosophical repercussions of his emotional attachment to you.

Rather, because he had no other choice.

At the abduction site, Sherlock furrowed his brow when you and John weren’t waiting for him outside the Kent estate. When he entered the foyer, Charles Kent wrinkled his nose and straightened his posture.

“Well, it’s about ti—”

Sherlock held up a finger to silence him. A gesture that only inspired Kent to scoff and glare at Greg. But Greg could only shrug as they observed Sherlock survey his surroundings.

When you and John trotted down the stairs, you raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Took you long enough, Holmes.”

You gestured up the stairs. 

“I would give you my theories. But I know that you’d rather dazzle the crowd with your intellect.” You turned to John. “I’m going to check out the study.”

“The study?” Kent scoffed. “Henry would sooner eat a book than read it.”

“Call it a curious hunch.” You shrugged.

John started following you. But you turned around and placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Keep him company and make him feel like the smartest person in the room.” 

John furrowed his brow. You gave him your most reassuring smile.

“I’ve got this.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. But after a moment, John gave you a nod. He followed Sherlock and you led yourself to the Kent private library.

Standing before the massive volumes of texts, you scanned the collection for any suspicious selections. The dust lines told you nothing was hiding among the classics. 

Regardless, you opened the ancient edition of _Frankenstein_. But, as expected, it yielded no results.

To your frustration, _The Divine Comedy_ was equally as fruitless. After slamming the book shut and returning it to the shelf, you closed your eyes and drew in a deep breath. 

Pursing your lips, you snuck over to the religious texts. It wouldn’t be long before Sherlock compiled his own deductions about the youngest Kent’s whereabouts.

You smirked to see, exactly at your eye line, three bibles. The center was, of course, the King James version.

You plucked the book from the shelf and opened it to find a mobile inside the carved up pages. The moment your fingers touched the device, it started buzzing with a call from an unknown number.

You carefully placed the book exactly where it was. Brushing your hands along various shelves, you exited the library and made your way to the toilet. Ensuring no one was nearby, you closed the door and answered.

“God, is that you?” you whispered with a breathy laugh.

Jim chuckled on the other line.

“You did miss me.”

“Of course.”

You could hear him sigh.

“Trouble in paradise? Have you tired of him yet?” Jim sang.

“Are you jealous?”

“Eve, you disappoint me. You know your physical attractions bore me.”

“And if I said I loved him? For his brilliant mind?”

He snickered. 

“They’re making you a worse liar. But even if that were true, I’d say slap on a deerstalker and admit that you’re just like the masses.”

“Then you’d leave me alone?”

“But who would you play with then?”

You softly shook your head. “What do you want, Jim?”

“Just say the word and I can call it all off.”

You covered your mouth and chuckled. 

“But who would I play with then?”

“My muse, how I’ve missed you too.”

“It was a trick question anyway.”

“True, Daddy’s having too much fun.”

You wrinkled your nose.

“If you ever expect me to call you that,” you growled, “you have a whole new circle of Hell coming to you.”

“I would never belittle your brilliance by infantilizing you. Your husband did not know how to handle true genius.”

“This is how you two met, right? You were the consultant he hired to kill me.”

“Took you long enough, Riley.”

You rolled your eyes.

“But you don’t have to complete the wishes of a dead man.”

“I had every intention of following through on our agreement. But when I met you, this fabled shapeshifter, I had to make new arrangements.”

You brought your hand over your mouth voice as your lips barely grazed the phone.

“Tell me, Jim,” you purred. “How were you going to do it?”

“You would be weeping over his coffin. And your greatest wish at that moment would be fulfilled with a shot through the heart. Right as his body lowered into the ground.”

“I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

“What can I say? You bring out a whole new side of me.”

Wrapping your free arm across your diaphragm, you hummed a chuckle and leaned back on the counter.

“Yes, with this game of high stakes...what would you call it?”

“Foreplay.”

“Do you flirt with all your food? Or am I just special?”

“He’s not my type. Not anymore at least. I used to think we were made for each other. But he’s proven himself too ordinary.”

“Wasn’t that the point?” You cocked an eyebrow. “To play right into the trap you set for him? Drive you to suicide because your only equal was actually a moron who believed a few lines of code would open any lock in the world?”

“And look where that got us? We’re still wrapped up in a fairy tale. He’s the hero, I’m the villain. Trying to save the damsel in distress. I’ve seen this show already and I want to be _stimulated_ in a new way.”

“Isn’t that more of an issue with the execution of your plan than with him?”

“The only mistake I made was in my expectation,” Jim hummed. “With Sherlock, what you see is what you get. He’s so desperate to flash that intellect to anyone who will listen and even to those who won't. While he may not be as ordinary as the rest, he’s...predictable.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Did he explain the diamond to you?”

Silence.

“As I said,” Jim chuckled. “Predictable. I’ve never hidden anything from you that you can’t figure out yourself.”

“Then tell me what the diamond was about.”

“I already have. What do I most want?”

“A life worth living.”

“I'll forgive you for that because I know what you really mean. I used to think my changeability was my weakness. It made everything else devastatingly uninteresting. But now...with you...”

You scoffed. “Part of you does hope that I love him, am I right?”

But Jim only chuckled in reply. 

“He always wants to solve the mystery. But I prefer to keep it very much alive.”

You smirked and shook your head. “I’ll see you soon, Jim.”

“But will you, Eve? Will you?”

Pursing your lips, you ended the call. After a deep breath, you opened the tank of the toilet and tossed the phone inside. You wrapped your hands around the back of your neck and threw your head back with a groan. 

But, after closing your eyes for a moment, you swung the door open right as John rushed down the hallway. His shoes squeaked on the glossy floorboards as he spun around.

“There you are!”

“Here I am.”

You shrugged.

“Did, did you find anything else?” he asked.

“No, I just didn’t want to be around him.”

John groaned and rolled his eyes. 

“You two will have to get over this eventually.”

“Did he solve the great mystery of the soon-to-be icicle?”

“Yes, they’re heading over now.”

Your eyes blew wide open. “They, they left? Everyone? Everyone is gone?”

John put his hands on his hips. 

“Yes, it was the only way that we’d ensure you wouldn’t run over there by yourself ready to shoot up the place.”

“JOHN! Give me your phone!”

“Why? What did...what do you know?”

“GIVE IT TO ME!”

He scrambled to hand his mobile to you. You pressed a few buttons and brought it to your ear. Furiously shaking your head, you started muttering before repeating the actions again. But after your second attempt, you threw the phone into your back pocket and pressed the heels of your palms to your forehead.

“No, no. He’s not answering.”

“What’s wrong?”

You shook out your hands and sucked in a breath.

“He’s not at the meatpacking plant by the church. He’s HERE!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because…”

You put your hands on your hips. 

“It’s what I would do.”


	40. He Shot the Siren

“He’s here, John.” You pointed firmly to the floorboards. “It was all a distraction.”

He took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips. 

“Okay, so we run around here looking for the entrance to a secret basement? This place is massive.”

“No, Jim already told me where he is.”

“More riddles?”

“I’m not Sherlock, John. I don’t speak in clues, but behavior. People’s motivations, what they want...”

You closed your eyes as Jim’s words rang through your mind.

_What do I most want?_

_A life worth living._

It was intended as a jest because of the sheer ordinariness of the desire. But you said it to him from the beginning.

_No one wants to be alone, Jim. Isn’t that why you torment him? For the company of someone who can, if not match, at least challenge your intellect?_

Perhaps Jim Moriarty is more ordinary than he likes to believe. Life isn’t worth living if there's no one to share it with. Being alone is the most hollow boredom there is.

You chewed on your fingernail and narrowed your eyes.

“I have to match him,” you whispered.

John tilted his head to the side. Your eyes ignited with fire as you redirected your attention back to him.

“I read every word on your blog.”

“Er, thank you?”

“I know as much I can about your cases through your eyes and what you were willing to share with the public.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. 

“When did Moriarty, specifically, use a diamond and a fire extinguisher to break reinforced glass?”

“When he stole the Crown Jewels. Part of his public display to get arrested.”

You smirked. 

“Of course...worthy of wearing my crown.” 

You bit your lip and tilted your head to the side. “John, what were his other big moves?”

“There was the theft of the Reichenbach Falls painting.”

“He arranged that?”

“Yes, because of his name. Richard Brook.”

“He didn’t pick the name based on the painting?”

John shook his head. “Not according to Sherlock.”

“Hm.” You furrowed your brow and continued to pick at your nails. 

John sucked in a breath and grimaced.

“This place is filled with art. Possibly a hidden passageway behind one of the paintings?”

You shook your head.

“No, I’m not familiar enough with art.”

“But Sherlock would be. He would figure it out.”

“He liked to blow things up,” you muttered.

“People, yes. Moriarty likes to strap bombs to their chests and blow them up. Myself included.”

“What about bomb shelters?”

John shook his head. “They probably wouldn’t have one on this property. The wealthy retreated to hotels or the countryside during the air raids.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“What?” He shrugged. “I know things too.”

“What about their employees? Someone had to maintain all of this. Do you think they could have provided something for them?”

“It’s...possible?”

“It has to be. Jim wants me to know how changeable he is too. It’s brilliant actually. Using something that was meant to protect against his weapon of choice to imprison someone else.”

Before John could question your conclusion, you dashed to the front door. He followed close behind as you sprinted across the Kent estate. Your boots thumped across the grass as your lungs burned in anticipation.

To his surprise, you stumbled upon a steel door embedded in the ground. A variety of vines and determined foliage adorned the outside of the historical cave. Your boots stopped on the stone stairs that signaled your descent into the spider’s web.

Chest heaving, you withdrew your gun and approached the door. You looked back at John and held up your hand.

“Stay here,” you demanded.

“I’m going with you.”

“No, John. We all know this is a trap and I don’t want you caught in this mess.”

“I am Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and I do not take orders from you. We’re family. I’m going in.”

You sucked in a breath before giving him a single nod. In one motion, you yanked the door open and charged inside. A chill crawled up your spine when you and John were securely across the threshold. But it wasn’t because of the frigid temperatures that nipped your skin. 

The door slammed closed behind you to obliterate all light from the outside world. But your vision was enveloped in darkness for only a moment. An infuriatingly incandescent lamp flickered on over an _empty_ chair at the center of the room. 

In its seat was a single envelope, sealed with red wax, instead of Henry Kent.

You lowered your weapon and let out a sigh of relief.

“Good, they got him.”

“Got him? What?” John tilted his head to the side.

You tucked your gun in the back of your jeans and plucked the envelope from the chair. With a grunt, you ripped open the seal and withdrew the parchment tucked inside. 

John rushed to the door to confirm that it was sealed shut. Shaking his head, he stood in front of you and put his hands on his hips.

“You, you knew that he wasn’t actually here…”

“Yeah,” you whispered as you read.

“You never even called Sherlock. That’s why you took my phone.”

“That and I haven’t gotten a new one yet. But here, you can have it back. Signal won’t work.”

Your eyes continued to scan the note as you tossed John his mobile. He checked it to confirm that, of course, it had no access to the outside world.

“Would you have let me come in here otherwise?” You raised your eyebrows at John, feeling the heat of his gaze upon you.

“Eve, what is going on?”

“Jim Moriarty.”

“Yes, who’s trying to KILL you.”

“Not kill. Test. Death is just a potential risk.”

“And you’re just willingly playing along?”

“Of course, John. Because I can only end this if I win.”

“He’s never done.”

You chuckled. “You could have said the same thing about Sherlock Holmes. But look at us.”

You waved your arm through the freezing air.

“Jim staged an entire kidnapping just to get Sherlock out of the way so he could spend quality time with me.”

John scrunched his face. “You, you’re enjoying this?”

“What? It’s flattering.”

“Eve.” John balled his hands into fists. “Are you actually a psychopath? Have you been...have you been playing us the whole time? Tell me the truth.”

You tossed the note back onto the chair and shook your head. 

“No, John. My love for you is quite real. I do regret lying to you. Although you should probably be used to it by now.”

John’s stomach twisted in knots at the cool tone of your voice.

“And Sherlock?” he asked.

“Real. All very real. _And_ I can still enjoy the attention of his psychopathic former adversary. Because that’s the thing, John. I’m _so_ changeable. Why can’t I have it all?”

You widened your eyes to flash him the intensity burning behind them. Wishing, at that moment, you were trapped in there with Sherlock. 

He would be able to read past your deception. He would know how to play along. At least, consensually.

But then again, that’s exactly why he was sent away. 

_How far were you willing to betray your only family?_

John swallowed and stared at the parchment resting ominously at the center of the room.

“What does he want?” his voice cracked.

“For us to kill each other.” You shrugged.

“WHAT?”

You smirked. “Only one of us is getting out of here alive.”

John snatched the note to read it for himself.

 _You have a Sherlock._ _  
_ _I have a gold key._   
_You only get out._ _  
If I get a body._

You pressed your back to the wall and sank to the cement. Biting your bottom lip, you pulled out your gun and rested your forearms on your knees. You tapped your shins with the barrel and grimaced at John.

“Well, looks like you’ll have to kill me.” 

You shrugged before kicking your firearm over to him.

“See? Not a psychopath.”

Mouth hanging open, John stared at your gun and looked back at you.

“What? No, I’m not shooting you.”

“And I’m not letting you die in here.”

“How...how are you so calm right now? Do you have some alternate plan?”

“No.”

“I never know what to believe when it comes to you.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?”

With a frown, John bent down to pick up the gun. After examining it, he narrowed his eyes at you.

“It’s loaded. Did you disable it somehow?”

“No.”

“Excuse me if I don’t just take your word for it.”

You covered your ears as John aimed at the door. He fired off a single piercing shot. But the bullet ricocheted off the metal and, instead, landed dead center in your Siren scar.

“FUUUUUCK!”

You threw your hands over the fresh wound and fell over. Blood stained your palms as you huffed aching breaths through gritted teeth. John dropped your weapon and ran to your side.

“Oh my God!” 

He tore off his jacket and removed his flannel, leaving his tee shirt on underneath. 

“I thought it was all an act!” he squeaked as he tried to stop the bleeding.

“IT WAS!” you shrieked. “I WAS DISASSOCIATING!”

He pressed his hand over yours. You allowed him to apply pressure to the wound as your back collapsed to the freezing cement floor. Your lip trembled as you stared at him with pupils blown wide open.

“I don’t want to die, John! Of course I don’t want to die. But I’m not killing you and I’m not letting you die in here with me.”

You threw your head back and groaned. “You could have at least made it a headshot.”

“I’m not killing you either!”

“Then I’ll do it myself.” 

You tried to stand up. But John put his hand on your shoulder to firmly plant you back to the cement.

“No one is dying,” he commanded.

“We all die.”

John rolled his eyes. “No one is dying in this room today.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“Do you know what the third circle of Hell is?”

He shook his head.

“Gluttons are forced to lie in vile slush from a never ending frozen rain. It’s disgusting. That’s why he shoved Kent in the meat locker and you can leave me here in a pool of my own freezing blood.”

You readjusted with a grunt.

“I thought I’d at least make it to the sixth circle though. Burning coffins. That sounded fun.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“God, I have such a type. Really screwed me in this lifetime. And only one of them did in the way that I actually liked.”

John slammed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Oh God.”

“Please _don’t_ let me live,” you laughed.

“We’ve going to get out of here.” He gave you a nod. “Put pressure on this.”

With a shrug, you obliged. When you placed your hand over your abdomen, you hissed at the contact. 

John started scouring the bunker. He examined the stone walls, the empty racks, and carefully scrutinized the rusted latch on the door. 

He pounded his fist on the steel.

“CAN ANYONE HEAR US? WE’RE STUCK IN HERE AND IT’S A MEDICAL EMERGENCY!”

You tilted your head back and stared at the ceiling.

“Is anyone here a doctor!” you mocked.

“Don’t, just don’t!”

“C’mon, John. You and I both know that no one can hear us. It’s soundproof.”

“I know. I just, I just have to try everything.”

He turned to face you and you bit your lip.

“Am I supposed to give you a goodbye message?" you asked. "Tell you how much I love you and that I need you to tell him he’s the love of my life and I’m sorry we fought and all that other stuff?”

“No, because you’re not going anywhere.”

John grabbed your gun from the floor. Using the butt of it, he assaulted the latch. It fell off instantly...considering it wasn’t the actual device securing the door.

“DAMN IT!” he shouted.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that doesn’t actually work.”

He glared at you.

“Don’t try shooting anything,” you shook your head. “You’ll get me again. Then you’d _have_ to kill me. Purely as an act of compassion.”

“Eve...what are we going to do?”

With a grunt, you barely rose to your feet. You hobbled to the door and narrowed your eyes. 

But without the false latch, the door was completely smooth. The only way you were getting out was if Jim Moriarty deemed you a worthy playmate.

You looked in John’s eyes for a few heavy breaths. Your heart internalized the sorrow, regret, and fear that so freely swam across them. You offered him a sorrowful smile as the muscles in your face relaxed.

“I-I don’t know.”

You threw yourself in the empty chair and glanced to the side. John dragged his hands over his face and sighed.

“Why are you two always getting me in life or death situations?” he whined.

“It’s this or drugs.”

“You too?”

You chuckled. “No. But I’d kill to see him high. That would be a trip.”

John cast sorrowful eyes on you as you glanced to the side. Your chest rapidly rose and fell as clouds of condensed air billowed from your lips. There was more blood across his flannel and your hands shook over the now-crimson fabric.

“Did you mean it?” he asked.

“Probably. Depending on the person and if they deserved it.”

“No, not about, not about that. The other part?”

You raised your eyebrows at him. John drew in a deep breath and pursed his lips. He blinked a few times at you and you furrowed your brow.

“Did you mean it,” he swallowed, “about Sherlock being...you know...”

Your eyes flickered away from him, choosing to instead stare at a particularly boring spot on the wall.

“I can’t stand him and apparently can’t live without him. So you make of that what you will. I’m not interested in the language as much as the experience.”

“Right, the good _friends_ you two are.”

“We _are_ friends, John. And Clint _was_ my husband. You saw how that turned out.”

John closed his eyes and looked down. He drew in a deep breath and looked back up to see you shivering profusely. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that the cold was eating away at him too.

“Shoot me,” he said.

“No.”

“We both know that killing ourselves won’t get us out of here.”

You drew in a deep breath. 

_He was right._

John picked up your gun and gave it to you. Your hand trembled as you tried to pry your fingers around the familiar grooves.

Gritting your teeth, you started to raise your weapon to aim. Your heart leaped into your throat at the sight of John putting his hands in the air.

“I hope you let him—” he started.

“Stop.”

“Eve, listen to me.”

“No, stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m giving my final words. I think you should shut up.”

You jerked the gun right at his chest. Your finger quivered over the trigger. The rest of you, however, felt infinitely grateful that the weight of your triggerpull far outmatched your shivers.

“I’m not doing this,” you said.

“You have to.”

“No, John. I’m not doing _this_.”

You swallowed and lowered the gun, softly shaking your head.

“Wha?” He brought his hands to his side.

“I’m not shooting you.”

“You are insufferably stubborn sometimes.”

“John, now it’s your turn to shut up. I’m not killing you today. And not because I’m so attached to you or because I’m so in love with him that I can’t murder his best friend in cold blood. Nothing to do with sentiment. No, I can’t kill you because, well, it’s boring.”

You summoned every ounce of your strength and stood up, ignoring the falter in your step. 

“This is the dullest, most unstimulating set up that I’ve ever had the misfortune of being a part of,” you grunted through gritted teeth.

“I mean, c’mon, Jim. Trap me in here with Watson? Of COURSE we’re going to have an emotional moment and he’ll beg me to kill him and I shoot him between the eyes and have lots of inner conflict about it. Then go home and bury my feelings in his best friend. Well, more like let him bury himself in me, you know what I mean.”

John furrowed his brow and tilted his head to the side. You threw your head back and howled through the air.

“You’re BORING ME, Jim! This is all too predictable. And I thought you wanted to be titillated by surprise and ravaged by the unexpected. Well, in all fairness, I didn’t think I’d get shot. So, I’ll give Watson a point for that wild card. But did we play this out to your liking?”

Silence.

“Oh, Jim,” you gasped. “Do you really want to waste the delight of watching one of your hamsters expire on a show that you already know the ending to?” 

You raised the gun and aimed exactly between John’s eyes. 

“Because I’ll do it. But I promise you that you will sorely regret it. And, no, that’s not a threat. You’ll just be fucking pissed that you ate the last cookie and didn’t bother to savor it.”

Silence.

“What will it be, King James? I’ll count to ten.”

_Ten._

You stared down John and readjusting your freezing fingers around your weapon. 

_Nine_.

Your heart pounded against the inner walls of your chest louder than it ever has before.

_Eight._

You prayed, prayed, prayed that this would work. Prayed to anyone who would listen.

_Seven._

After all, he planned this from the beginning.

_Six._

And that planning was his downfall.

_Five._

Did he expect you to know that?

_Four._

Did you manage to surprise him enough?

_Three._

Would you really shoot John?

_Two._

You might have to—

_BUZZ._

The door screamed open to signal your freedom.

With a rigid arm, you lowered your gun and John rushed to yank the door open. You sucked in a breath as the warm air barreled through along with the shouts of Greg to announce your salvation.

The world felt like it was moving slower.

John called out for a medic. Your fingers relaxed enough for your gun to clatter to the cement. Wincing in pain, you applied more pressure to your open wound. Your eyelids fluttered as you shouted to anyone who would listen.

“Put a blanket around that man!” you furiously pointed at John with your free hand. He made his way up the stairs as a blur of dark curls and charcoal wool flew past him.

Sherlock caught you as you stumbled forward. He wrapped his hands around you to guide you back to the outside world. You moaned softly at the warmth of his touch.

“Hey there, hot stuff.” You smirked, but refused to make eye contact with him.

He pursed his lips and watched you avoid his gaze. A few paramedics rushed to your side as you started shaking your head.

“I’m, I’m _not_ fine.” You finally looked at Sherlock with gentle mist threatening the clarity of your vision. “I’m not fine.”

The paramedics forced you onto a stretcher. Wrapped in the damn blanket he deserved, John rushed over to you. He, gladly, ignored the person chasing after him. 

“You can’t go in there!” she shouted.

John jabbed a finger towards your ambulance as Sherlock jumped in the back.

“I am Doctor John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps and I will damn well go wherever I please. _That_ is my sister you’re hauling away. Back off or I will make you.”

Needless to say, your eyelids fluttered to the sight of both your Hardy Boys as your system got pumped with a generous dose of pain medication.

“I’m so—” Sherlock started.

You raised a finger to silence him. “Later. I will enjoy you _later._ ”

John shook his head. “You knew the whole time. You just had to give him enough of a show.”

“ _You_ did, doctor. You’re the one who shot me.”

Sherlock whipped his head to stare at John. 

“It was an accident!” John defended.

“A brilliant, bloody accident.” You smirked. “Yeah, I knew for sure the moment I read the note. I am a manipulative bitch, John. And sometimes, that really comes in handy.”

He smiled at you and you released a painful chuckle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sherlock reached out to grab your hand. Upon the warmth of his touch, your eyelids finally fluttered closed. 

Feeling safe enough to rest once again.


	41. Rest My Muse

DAY ONE

_ death _

The air reeked of death.

Your eyes fluttered open to a dark room illuminated by gently beeping monitors and a few distant lights.

The shapes. The world was just shapes. Colors. Thoughts couldn’t.

_ Something was wrong. _

Voices. Whispers. Secrets.

“She should wake up any moment now. She had an alarming amount of scar tissue. But she should recover just fine. As long as she gets plenty of rest and takes it easy.”

“Thank you.” 

“I’ll be back with more information on follow up care when she’s awake.”

_ Pause. _

“Oh, looks like she’s coming back to us now.”

The doctor stood next to your bed and smiled at you. You could barely make out her golden hair and navy scrubs. She leaned in closer.

“Miss Watson, you gave us a good scare. But you’re going to be just fine. As long as you rest.”

“Wat-who? What?”

You blinked firmly and swallowed. But light. Thoughts. Blurred.

“Did, did you do it?” you breathed.

“Yes, we removed the bullet.”

“No, no it wasn’t. Not bullet. Baby. Did you, did you…”

“Is she pregnant?”

“No,” John whispered. “She, she can’t.”

You seized the front of the doctor’s scrubs and yanked her face to yours.

“You promised me! You promised that after, after I couldn’t. That I couldn’t ever again. I-I can’t, I can’t have his baby.”

“It’s okay,” she soothed. “We took care of everything. You’re going to be okay.”

“Accident. It was...accident. You can’t tell him I asked you. Or, or he’ll kill us both.”

Heart racing, she gave you a single nod.

You scrunched your face but loosened your grip. Releasing the breath she was holding in, the doctor rose upright and slowly nodded her head. She looked at John and Sherlock with wide eyes.

John covered his mouth and swallowed. He wasn’t sure how to even begin explaining this. He glanced at Sherlock for a hint. But Sherlock started backing away from you, hardness carved into every one of his facial muscles.

“Where am I?” you murmured as the room started taking more definition. “Where? Hosp...am I?”

“Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital,” the doctor replied.

“No, no, no.” You started attacking the wires and sensors on your chest. “I’m not, I’m not allowed at the hospital. He’ll get mad. I’m putting everyone, I’m putting him at risk.”

The doctor rushed to put your hands to rest. 

“You’re okay. You’re safe here.”

But you smacked her hands away. “No, no, no. STOP TOUCHING ME!”

You kicked her straight in the stomach and lurched upward. A screech tore through your throat at the pain that shot through your abdomen. 

John grabbed your shoulders and planted your back to the bed. But you writhed in his grasp.

“Sherlock!” he cried out for help.

But the detective was nowhere to be found.

The doctor called for security. She approached you with a syringe as you clawed at John’s hands.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH ME!” you spat. “Don’t give me anything! He’s coming. He knows. He’ll kill us all!”

But as hard as you fought in your drug-induced state, the doctor successfully managed to puncture the flesh of your hip. After a few blinks, the world got darker. 

Fuzzier. 

Sleep.

DAY TWO

You wrinkled your nose to the stench of firewood and cigarettes. Pupils shrinking in the glow of an unknown fire, your heart started racing upon the sight of wood enclosing you on all sides. 

You hammered your fists against the cedar. But it refused to succumb to your will. Lungs gasping for air, you howled for help. 

For anyone who could hear you.

Unfortunately, the only person listening appeared at your side.

“Baby girl,” Clint cooed. “I missed you too.”

You whipped your head to the side to see him lying next to you in the cedar box.

“Clint! We have to get out of here!”

Grunting, you clawed at the wood. It splintered into pieces that dug underneath your nails. You yelped in pain.

He smirked and lit a cigarette. The smoke choked you as he blew puffs into your face.

“What the fuck are you doing!” you coughed. “You’re going to set us on fire!”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Clint! HELP ME. We have to get out!”

You wriggled around and desperately scoured your prison.

“You’re missing the point. As always,” he hummed.

“I don’t have time for your condescending bullshit. Who the fuck buried us in here?”

“You don’t remember?”

You snapped your gaze back to his, stomach churning at the piercing flecks of green in his eyes. Clint drew in a satisfied breath and sighed.

“We did.”

“What?”

“When you said ‘I do.’”

You blinked a few times and tilted your head to the side. He sneered and flicked the ash from his cigarette.

“We’re dead. I took you with me.”

“What kind of trick is this? We’re not dead. You’re not...”

Your pupils blew wide open. 

“You, you’re dead.”

“And if you’re here with me….”

“No, no. I’m not. I can’t. I have to get back.”

You pressed your palms to the cedar beneath you and kneed the top of the box with all your strength. But its only reply was a splintering pain across your kneecap.

“FUCK!”

“You’re so cute.”

“If you’re not going to help me, then get the fuck out.”

You turned your back to him and started knocking along the side panel, searching for any weakness in the structural integrity.

“You’re never going to see them again,” he droned.

You clenched your jaw as every muscle in your body turned to marble. He inched closer to you and nipped your earlobe. You sucked in a breath and tensed as his hand ran along your waist.

“Your detective lover boy has already forgotten you. It’s exactly why he tried to surgically carve out his emotions. That and to be more like me, of course.” 

He kissed your neck as you slammed your eyes shut. Your nails dug into the wood.

“Really,” he breathed. “You were just an experiment in love. I’m sure he’s sworn off the whole venture thanks to you. You were never his to have after all.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“No, no,” he cooed as his hand trailed underneath your shirt. “That’s your job.”

The nurse bolted into your room at the sound of your screams.

“GET HIM OFF ME! GET HIM OFF!”

He injected a sedative into your IV as you furiously shook in your bed, fisting the sheets in pure anguish. Elbows on his knees and leaning over in his dedicated chair, John refused to tear his gaze away from you. 

Even if it would be the very thing that killed him.

Your convulsions eventually subsided to tremors, which melted into the gentle rising and falling of your chest as you fell back asleep.

John hoped, he prayed, that you wouldn’t have another dream.

And God blessed you both by answering him.

DAY THREE

A rude itch on your nose woke you up that morning. But when you yanked your hand upward to scratch it, your range of motion was immediately halted by the clank of metal on plastic.

“What the?”

You furrowed your brow at the handcuff around your wrist. Tugging a few times, you were most certainly handcuffed to your hospital bed on both sides.

You glanced around the room and gasped a sigh of relief when John jumped to his feet. He sucked in a breath and stood at the end of your bed. But when your eyes went wide with recognition, he was able to actually exhale.

“John, what the hell is this?” 

You raised your arm as high as the restraints would allow.

“You, er...you attacked the doctor.”

“What? When?”

“Um, the other night. When you first woke up.”

“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember...anything. Other than...than the ambulance.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Nothing. It’s, it’s nothing.”

You studied his face. But as you scanned the room, your heart skipped a beat.

“Where’s—”

“Out. He just stepped out for a moment.”

“You’re a bad liar.” 

He crossed his arms and covered his mouth with a swallow. Staring at the floor, John softly shook his head. Your heart started pumping faster. You even had a monitor for proof.

“John...what aren’t you telling me?” Your eyes went wide. “Is something wrong with you? Did, did the cold...are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m okay.” He pursed his lips and gripped the foot of your bed.

“If it’s not you...then...me? Could they not fix...not fix...” 

“No, you’re going to be fine.” He gave you a firm nod. “You’re going to be... _ okay. _ ”

John’s stomach twisted in knots as he slowly approached the side of your bed. He tentatively outstretched his hand. When you didn’t retract, he placed it on your shoulder. You furrowed your brow at the scratch marks along his hands.

“Who..did, did I do that to you?”

With a hard swallow, your eyes begged him for answers.

“No, no. You should see the other guy.”

You tapped your fingers along the bedside railing and bit your lip. Boring your eyes into an instructional sticker on the plastic foot of your bed, you spoke barely above a whisper.

“John...why isn’t he here? What did I do wrong?”

Your chest quivered with the heaviness of your heart. John closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. He stepped over to the side of your bed and took your hand in his.

“You did  _ nothing _ wrong. You hear me?”

You gave him a few nods, unsure if you were lying to him or yourself.

“I’m going to tell him you’re awake. It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

John gave you a firm nod and left to call Sherlock. Right as you took a deep breath, a nurse crept into your room. Phone in hand and profusely shaking, she outstretched her arm to offer you the device.

“It, it’s for you,” she squeaked. 

You gestured for her to tuck it between your ear and shoulder. She slammed her eyes closed as you adjusted to secure the phone in place.

“I would kill him again if I could,” Jim spoke lowly.

“To be clear, this isn’t out of compassion or concern for me?”

“Of course not. But even I have a certain standard of conduct.”

“What did you threaten her with?”

“Five and seven years old.”

You drew in a deep breath and mouthed “I’m sorry” to the trembling nurse. She gave you a small nod as her lip quivered.

“What do you want, King James?”

“Rest, my muse. We’ll play again soon.”

“I’ll miss you in the meantime.”

“I count on it.”

He cut off the line. You glanced at the nurse as a request for her to take the phone back. In a blur, she plucked it from your shoulder and dashed out of your room.

John furrowed his brow at the scrambling woman when he returned. Scratching the back of his head, he avoided your gaze for a moment. You raised your eyebrows.

“Is he coming back?”

“He didn’t pick up. But I sent a text.”

“Can I try him?”

John gave you a soft smile, the first in days. He dialed Sherlock and placed the phone on your shoulder. When the answerphone beeped, you bit your lip and took a deep breath before starting.


	42. Drug Induced Confessions

Lying on an open body tray, Sherlock pressed his palm to the top of the chamber. Blankly staring upward, he rocked his fingers just enough to slide the stainless steel back and forth.

Examining a body, Molly sucked in a breath.

“Will you _please_ stop that? I can’t focus.”

He paused for a moment. But when she exhaled, he resumed the grating sound of rollers on tracks.

“You know,” she threw her head back. “You could just go up there. You’ve been sulking for three days down here. And as much as I enjoy the company, you’re a lot noisier than my usual crowd. Even if you’re barely talking.”

Sherlock pressed his palm to the steel and slid the tray out of its cavity. He blinked a few times and continued to stare at the ceiling.

“You’ve completed more work in the past three days than I’ve seen you execute in a matter of weeks.”

Molly softly shook her head. But right as she lowered herself to examine the rather _silent_ corpse in front of her, Sherlock’s mobile started rattling the metal as it requested his attention.

He yanked it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Seeing John’s name, he sent him to voicemail and awaited his text.

_She’s awake and wants to know where you are. We both do. Are you coming?_

He placed the phone on his chest and started strumming his fingers next to it.

“What was it like with Jim?” he asked.

Molly groaned in reply.

“We only went on three dates.”

“Did you have sex with him?” 

“Wha-what?! That is _none_ of your business.”

He smirked. “You know what they say about the third date.”

When his mobile started buzzing, he sent John to voicemail again.

“I’m _not_ , absolutely not, talking about this with you,” Molly stammered.

“I know you didn’t. I just wanted to gauge your reaction.”

But when Sherlock didn’t receive a second text and, instead, got an actual voicemail notification, he furrowed his brow. 

“You know Sherlock, you are just…” Molly continued her pointless rant.

With a single beep, Sherlock commanded the phone to speak. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of your soft, timid voice.

“Hi, um. I just wanted to let you know that I’m awake and, well, lucid. I think I know why you’re staying away. But I’m okay. I’m, I’m going to be okay. 

“So if you wanted to come over, you can. But only if you want to. You don’t have to or anything. I just...I miss you. I missed you since we started fighting and I’m pretty sure I know why you did what you did. And I’m just, I’m really sorry. 

“I hope you’re not mad at me. But if you are, I understand. And even if you’re mad, I still want to see you. I’d rather see you mad than not at all because you’re...well…”

_Pause._

“Because you’re my best friend.

“So if you want to come over, I promise not to be a total terror and maybe we can share morphine or whatever. Or you and John can try to get some drugged confessions out of me. It’s the only way you’d stand a chance anyway.”

He smirked.

“So I’ll see you soon? I hope.”

Sherlock swung his legs over the tray and returned to Earth. Strutting out of the morgue, he plucked a bobby pin from Molly’s hair when she was mid-sentence.

“HEY!” she whined.

He raised his eyebrows. 

“When he kissed you,” he tilted his head to the side, “did it...did it make you feel anything?”

“GET OUT!”

With a shrug, Sherlock, to all of Molly’s bewilderment, obliged. The moment he was out of sight, she let out an exasperated sigh. Then slumped on a stool and blankly stared at the wall.

Good thing she was already ahead on her work. She probably wouldn’t get anything else done that day.

  
  


In your room, you handed John’s phone back to him.

“Thanks,” you whispered. 

He gave you a nod before pulling his chair over to sit next to you.

You readjusted in bed and scrunched your face. As much as you tried, you couldn’t help but let a whine escape your lips. You closed your eyes and sharply inhaled a few breaths through clenched teeth.

John reached over to adjust your medication. But you furiously shook your head.

“I can’t. I can’t. I need, I have to be able to focus.”

He placed his finger over the button and knit his brows together.

“He’s dead. He’s not coming. I’ve got you.”

You bit your lip and hissed an inhale.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

After a swallow, you gave him a nod and John increased your medication. You gritted your teeth and rested your head back into the pillow, fisting the sheets as your relief could not come soon enough.

“You fucked up my scar, John. Anderson will have a fit.”

He smirked as relief washed over his eyes.

“He’ll just have to deal and, if I have any say in the matter, never see you naked again.”

“Yeah, agreed. I only like men with massive...” You wiggled your eyebrows at him “Brains.”

“And egos.”

You chuckled as your eyes flickered to the door and back to John. Squirming, you adjusted to face him in hopes of quelling your curiosity.

“He’s coming,” John assured.

“Maybe. That massive ego might get in the way.”

John glanced down and shook his head before returning his eyes to you. He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head to the side.

“So, drug induced confessions?”

“Try me, Watson.”

“Moriarty. What’s going on there?”

You shrugged and checked out the ceiling. 

“We talk.”

“And he tries to kill you.”

“That too. But he’s backing off for a bit.” You gave John a sideways smile. “I kinda feel bad for him.”

“Feel bad? For Jim Moriarty?”

“I mean, yeah. He must be really lonely.”

John gave you a scrutinizing gaze and shook his head.

“He runs a criminal network and has killed countless people.”

“So have I.” You raised your eyebrows. “I can’t judge his sins without first judging my own.”

“That was different. You didn’t have a choice.”

“I mean, I did and I didn’t,” you hummed. “I could have stopped participating at any time. I would have died. But I could have stopped. For him...it’s in his nature to be the way he is. He can’t help it.”

“And that’s an excuse?”

“Oh, fuck no. He’ll only be stopped with a bullet through his brain.” You rolled your eyes. “But if toying with me keeps him occupied, he might hurt fewer people.”

“It only escalated with Sherlock.”

“Yeah, but that’s because it was a competition. Mine is bigger than yours.” 

You reached up to tap your temple. But your handcuffs stopped you. With a groan, you rolled your eyes.

“Intellects. You know what I mean...I think I’m the closest thing he has to a friend. And sure, it’ll only end with one of us dead. But until then...here I am.”

“You’re not dying.”

“We all die, John.”

“You know what I mean.”

You snickered. “Yeah, I do.”

John clasped his hands together and rested them on the side of your bed. He cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at you.

“And Sherlock?”

“What about him?”

“Yes, what about him?”

With a laugh, you shook your head and stared at the ceiling.

“I already told you everything. And that was _after_ you shot me.”

“And it was part of a show for a psychopath.”

“Pretty much all of my lies have some truth to them. Or they wouldn’t be effective.”

You gave him a look before turning away again. 

“I want to hear it from you now,” John pressed his cause.

“I’m doped up on morphine. I doubt this is admissible in court, Doctor.”

“Why are you being so evasive?”

“Why are you so stuck on this? Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean you have to control it.”

“You two are spending way too much time together.”

“Sorry.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. You smirked and rolled your head to look at him again.

“Okay, FINE! I’ll tell you _everything._ My unbridled review of Sherlock Holmes.”

You cleared your throat.

“Ability to please me in bed. Thirteen out of ten. Cock size—”

John wrinkled his nose. “Why! Why do you subject me to this!”

“Serves you right! You won’t just let it rest.” You snickered. “And I mean, John. Be honest with me. Have you ever wondered?”

He buried his face in his hands and shook his head, redness painted across the tips of his ears. You soaked in the evidence of his embarrassment with a shameless smirk. 

“Why is it so important to you?” you asked.

He threw his head upward and turned out his palms.

“You should be able to tell him,” he pleaded.

“Bullshit.” You wrinkled your nose. “His love language is dead bodies. Not words of affirmation.”

Clasping his hands and resting them in his lap, John drew in a deep breath and looked you dead in the eyes.

“I want to know. I want to hear it from you. Because if this blows up, I won’t just lose one friend. But two.” 

He shook his head. 

“It’ll never be the same. None of us will be. And I want to know...I want to know if I should be prepared.”

A knot twisted in your chest as you swallowed. You closed your eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

Inhale _._

_One, two, three._

Exhale. 

_One, two, three._

When you opened your eyes, you returned your gaze to John. And, for the first time with possibly any human on Earth, you hid nothing among your words, expression, nor demeanor.

“John, I am irretrievably in love with the man. He does not own my heart. But I freely give it to him every day with every breath. And not just for his mind or his flashy arrogance. He could lose it all tomorrow and I would spend every moment laughing alongside him in the throes of insanity. 

“I have been terribly alone all my life. And for once, I don’t have to be. So as long as he’ll have me, as long as you both will, I’m not going anywhere. I owe you a great debt. And I hope that by loving each of you with my whole heart, I can begin to repay that.”

You bit your lip and tittered.

“So, you know, if this does blow up, it’s all on him. _Clearly_.”

You looked away and shook your head, cursing the monitors that gave away your erratically beating heart. John reached out to take your hand in his. You smiled at him uncomfortably. But he held enough ease for the both of you.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you too.”

You laughed and rattled your cuffs, giving his hand a generous squeeze.

“Now,” you smirked, “can you get someone to take these off since I’m not going to be murdering anyone anytime soon? I’m pretty sure the reason no one has come in here is because they’re all terrified of me. And maybe help me get some food? I’m starving.”

“Right!” 

He rubbed his hands over his trousers before popping to his feet. Beaming ear to ear, he dashed out of your room. But his eyes went wide when he sharply turned the corner and almost ran into Sherlock.

“Sher—”

Sherlock put his hand over John’s mouth and raised his eyebrows. When John gave him a nod, he removed his palm.

“How long were you standing out here?” John hissed.

“Since you asked her about Moriarty. For the case.”

His eyes flickered to your door and back to John.

“Are you going to tell her you were eavesdropping?”

“Of course not.”

John rolled his eyes. He knew better than to attempt a similar line of questioning with the detective.

“What did she tell you in the Anderson shelter?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m not telling you that. I’m lucky she told me everything she just did.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Her favorite position is when I take my—”

“Oh GOD! Not you too!” John threw his hands over his ears.

“Tell me.”

John shook his head.

“Tell me or I’ll keep going.”

Eyes wide and irate with fury, John frowned and swallowed a gag.

“Fine,” he threw down his hands. “She said...she said that you’re the love of her life.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. But John rammed a finger to his chest and clenched his jaw.

“If you exploit anything that you just heard, I will, well, I’ll—”

“Kill me?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “And there won’t be a Sherlock Holmes to solve the case.”

John wrinkled this nose and waved his hands at Sherlock.

“So you better, you know, figure out your end of this. Or _you_ will be the one losing two friends when you fuck everything up.”

Sherlock smirked and gave him a single nod before walking away. John ran behind him and grabbed his wrist to turn him around.

“Just where do you think you’re going?”

“To get chips. She won’t eat anything you pick out.”

He pulled Molly’s bobby pin out of his pocket and held it out to John.

“I trust you can take care of the—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He snatched it from his fingers.

When John returned to your room, he started fumbling to unlock your cuffs. You gasped a sigh of relief and stretched your arms.

“Yes,” you threw your head back and wrapped your fingers around your wrist. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

“Is he getting me something greasy?”

“Yeah, he’s on his way to...wait, you knew?”

You smiled and nodded. 

John cocked an eyebrow at you. You laughed and shook your head. 

“Don’t worry, John. I know better than to hold my breath for anything in return. I would actually die of asphyxiation. But no, I’m glad he knows. He should know.”

“No regrets?”

“The only _regret_ that I have is all the scar tissue in my throat because I can’t...you know.” You raised your eyebrows. “It could be really useful if he was being _particularly_ annoying.”

John slammed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“I’m going to have to move out.”

“Nonsense. I’ll get you some fancy noise cancelling headphones.”

“Unless I can use them whenever you talk, it does not take away the horrific images you both give me.”

“I think the real solution is that you need to get some, too.”

You batted your eyelashes at him.

“I have a very particular skill set, John. Just say the word and I can make a killer wingwoman.” You pointed a finger in the air and shook your head. “Wait, no. Poor choice of words. I am a _fantastic_ wingwoman!”

You beamed at him. John dragged his hand over his face and rolled his eyes.

“Maybe someday.”

“Someday has long passed.” 

You grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I’ve got you too, John. We’re family.”

He took a seat and let out a sigh. You readjusted to face him, putting your knuckles under your hand and resting your elbow on the railing.

“Now,” you smiled, “I want to hear all about your past girlfriends. You can skip the psychopaths though.”

John chuckled and bit the inside of his cheek. Elbow on the armrest, he tilted his head to the side and rested his temples on his fingertips.

“Alright, but remember, you asked for this,” he warned.

“I’ve got nothing but morphine, time, and a whole lotta love for you. Shoot. Just not me.”

Sherlock arrived outside your room as John was in the middle his unimpressive dating saga. He, for one, was grateful that you volunteered to listen to him. 

Anytime John talked about his love life, Sherlock could only last, at most, 67 seconds before getting lost in a series of experiments in his mind palace (the average being 28). His last scientific venture was a study on the decomposition rate of eyeballs based on the surgical precision of enucleation. As expected, a higher quality procedure yielded...

_Oh my God, John was still talking._

Sherlock blinked a few times and entered your room with a variety of your favorite foods in tow. It certainly didn’t go unnoticed by him, or even John for that matter, that your heart literally skipped a beat the moment you laid eyes on him.

“Took you long enough, Holmes.”

He shoved the tray of food in John's available hands before marching to the other side of your bed. He put his palms on either side of your face and stared into your eyes, noticing the coloration of your irises in a way he never had before. They were truly unlike any that he’d ever seen—dead or alive.

“Friends?” he whispered.

“Friends.”

He lowered his lips to yours and kissed you with a heart that caught fire long ago.

_Yes, he loved you too._


	43. The Simple, Destructive Chemistry of Love

The next morning, the dust of the dead danced across the sunbeams peeking through your hospital window. With a gentle grumble, you lifted your head from Sherlock’s shoulder and opened your eyes.

Your fingers twitched to bring your attention to the envelope securely tucked between them. With a soft smile across your lips, you broke open the red wax with as little noise or movement as possible. 

Your two Hardy Boys were finally, finally, _finally_ asleep.

You withdrew a stack of photos and pieces of paper. The corner of your lip upturned in a smirk as you flipped through the images of Clint’s body. The photos were taken at your shared home of a mere few weeks and in an open box in the ground. 

Studying the series of papers, you read through the medical examination that confirmed your dearly departed husband was no longer amongst the living. At the bottom of the last page was a latitude and note from your unique friend.

_You get the other half as long as I’m the one who goes with you._

You closed your eyes and released an exhale before resting the peculiarly perfect gift—if you were generous enough to call it such a thing—in your lap. With a soft sigh, you curled back into Sherlock and closed your eyes—grateful that he finally agreed to share your tiny, albeit lonely, bed.

Even though the hospital reeked of sterilization and the unknown, it was still one of the best night's sleeps you’ve had, well, ever.

Jim knew that would be the case. It’s exactly why he threatened the whole hospital staff to forgo many protocols when it came to your care—your psych consult included.

He couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed that he didn’t have to endure sharing that bed with you.

After all, three's a crowd.

Chest expanding next to you, Sherlock drew in a deep breath as his consciousness crept back to the waking world. You rested your hand on him to soak in the feeling of his breath and heartbeat. Without opening his eyes, a smile ghosted across his lips and you leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Thank you for coming back.”

He smirked and drew you closer to him.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I missed you too.”

After a swallow, his eyes flickered open. He gave John a quick glance. The doctor was sprawled across the recliner with his arm hanging over the side and mouth, equally, hanging open. 

With a small chuckle, Sherlock turned to you. He raised his eyebrows at the photos in your hand. Taking note of their signature packaging, he furrowed his brow and snatched them from you—alertness at full strength in a millisecond.

You let out a sigh as he scrutinized every inch of the glossy images and word on the medical report. When he was done, you took the evidence back and stuffed it in the envelope.

“Are you going?” he asked.

“Of course I am.”

Jaw tightening, he tilted his head to the side and bore his eyes into you. You tucked the envelope between the bed and the railing.

“Don’t be jealous.”

“Not jealous.”

“Then what is it?”

He cleared his throat. His eyes flickered downward and back to you.

“Concern.”

You smirked and wrapped your hand around the side of his face. 

“You are no psychopath, Sherlock Holmes.”

With a gentle heart, you curled your fingers inward to draw his lips to yours. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he studied the tenderness of your touch. You’ve never kissed him like this before.

It wasn’t hungry. It was... _kind_?

Truthfully, Sherlock hypnotized you would admit to murder before love. But the chemical that brought about your drug-induced confession wasn’t C₁₇H₁₉NO₃. But rather, an incredibly common concoction of 

C8H11NO2

C₁₀H₁₂N₂O

C43H66N12O12S2

He was eager to continue studying the lingering effects of your admission of love. Perhaps one day he might complete a trial himself.

For research purposes, of course.

You withdrew from your kiss with a smile and pressed your forehead to his.

“I can handle Jim Moriarty.”

“You got shot.”

“And whose fault was that?”

You gestured to John who, as if on cue, snorted a snore and twitched in his sleep. With a gentle laugh, you looked back at Sherlock and raised your eyebrows.

“I know you’re afraid that he’s trying to make me like him. That’s why you didn’t want me involved. You weren’t concerned about my physical safety. But my…”

You tapped your temple and cocked an eyebrow. He gave you a single nod.

“I’m grateful to be one of the few souls on earth to receive your concern.” You pecked him on the cheek. “But just because I can understand his behavior and motivations doesn’t mean that I _am_ him. Or even that I excuse what he does.”

Stroking the side of Sherlock’s face with the back of your hand, you tilted your head to the side and smiled at him.

“After all, I understand _you_ but I don’t run around flashing everyone with my massive..." Your eyes gleaned mischief. “Intellect.”

You tapped his nose with a laugh. “That’s just for you and life-threatening situations.”

Sherlock leaned closer and drew in a breath. 

“He won’t remain satisfied with this arrangement.”

“No, of course not. Can you blame him? Aren’t we, as people, always wanting more?”

“Why do you humanize him?”

“People could ask why I do the same for you.”

“I’m not people.”

“No, you’re Sherlock Holmes. My best friend and,” you wiggled your eyebrows, “my second favorite person on Earth.”

“Second?”

“My brother is cooler than yours.”

“You state truths like they’re impressive.”

“The fact that I’m telling the truth at all _is_ impressive.”

He gave you a look. You wrinkled your nose and leaned back.

“I’m not being evasive.”

“Your moment of honesty did not last long.”

“But did you enjoy it?”

He raised his eyebrows. You shook your head and rolled your eyes.

“No, I did not just prove you right. I’m not telling you because you don’t need the answer from me. You’re just letting _your_ emotion cloud your judgment.”

“I’m hardly one for sentiment.”

“You know who I am. You know what I do. Figure it out, detective. As long as you don’t let jealousy get the better of you and mistake my interest for attraction, then you can put it together.”

He leaned back and released a sharp exhale.

“I’m not jealous.”

“And I am not in love with you, Mr. Holmes.”

Tracing his fingertips along your neckline, Sherlock brought your lips back to his. He carefully noted the delicate flutter of his stomach and the symphonic beating of his heart. Surely, another aftereffect of your truth wrapped in a lie.

He was beginning to enjoy this fieldwork with you.

“Do…” he breathed onto your lips as he continued to kiss you. “Do you need me to say it?”

“Not if you have to ask.”

His eyelids fluttered at the generosity of your touch (and heart). 

“Because I-I...”

You nipped his lip before inhaling a deeper kiss from him. “I know.”

Sherlock fisted your hair and dipped his tongue into your mouth. With a grateful heart, you hummed a soft moan onto his lips—appreciating how unselfishly he gave himself to you at that moment in time.

But when your body ached for more, you placed your palm to his chest and pulled away. 

“You are intoxicating,” you gasped. “How dare you take advantage of me in my inebriated state.”

He smirked. Wrapping his arm around your shoulder, Sherlock drew you close and nuzzled your hair before planting a kiss on your head.

“Not faking this time?” he hummed.

“No, I’m quite enjoying its effects.” You raised your arm with the IV. “Wanna share?”

He chuckled and rested his head on yours.

“DAMN MY LEG!” John yelped himself awake from the corner.

He threw himself upright and glanced around the room to reorient himself. You snickered and leaned over to smile at him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

John dragged his hand over his face and blinked a few times.

“What did...was someone shouting in here?”

“Yes, you.”

“What did I say?”

“Your middle name,” you sang. “Practically cursing it all over the place.”

“I was saying...no, no, no.”

He pointed a finger at Sherlock and narrowed his eyes. “I’m not falling for that.”

You shrugged at Sherlock. “I tried.”

“Your interrogation techniques are subpar right now anyway.”

You shuddered with a seductive smile.

“Hot. Keep talking like that and you might get to check out my stitches.”

John scratched his head and scrunched his face.

“Er, speaking of which, how are you feeling?”

“Actually, much better today than any other. Do you think they’ll let me try standing up on my own?”

“I think they’ll let you do anything you damn please around here. I don’t know what’s going on with these people.”

“Moriarty,” you and Sherlock replied.

You winked at him. “Jealous?”

“Annoyed.”

John stood up and enjoyed a generous stretch. He nodded to you with a smile.

“Hungry?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered.

“Not you.”

“Yes, _she’s_ hungry.”

You furrowed your brow. He gestured between you and John—perturbed by the fact that he, once again, was the only one in the room using his brain.

“You’re always hungry.”

“I simply adore you.” You pecked him on the cheek.

His face replied by bundling into a slight smirk on the side where you kissed him. He could feel the warmth flush to his cheeks as he avoided your gaze. Even in your mental condition, you were sure to notice and probably would, but he hoped wouldn't, expl—

“Are you...are you blushing?”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“No.”

“It’s a great shade. I bet I can get Mrs. Hudson to find a matching one if you want to wear it more.”

His eyes widened as he drilled them into you. But you offered no mercy and stroked the side of his face.

“You’re a beautiful man with an even more brilliant mind and I am utterly in love with you.”

You giggled as the color on his cheeks darkened and he looked away. He wasn’t sure if he disliked or enjoyed—did he enjoy?—this flavor of your manipulation over the physical. 

But you, being the clever creature you were, could always find a direct line to his heart—regardless of your physical or mental condition.

Under any other circumstances, Sherlock might question leaving such an open and, frankly, embarrassing vulnerability available to the whim of another. He could practically hear John chuckling at his expense. 

No wait, he _was_ chuckling at his expense. 

And you didn’t want to even get him started on Mycroft’s “disappointed, but not entirely surprised” expression that he could already see in his head. 

But, as it always ended with you, it was a moot point evaluating the ramifications of his attachment. Considering the fact that Sherlock, quite simply, had no other choice but to let you love him and, quite destructively, exploit that truth.

“Alright, my pretty friend.” You patted the side of his burning red face. “I’ll let you rest _for now_.”

You beamed at John. 

“Some breakfast would be lovely. If you don’t mind grabbing something. And I do request your doctor’s choice because I’d like to heal as quickly as possible.”

“Yes,” he quietly cheered, grinning ear to ear and triumphantly shaking his fists in front of him.

“Don’t be too long though.” You raised your eyebrows at him. “I want to see how many shades of crimson I can paint on this exquisite face. And I sense that you don't want to miss out.”

Hands on his hips, John glanced at the floor and shook his head. He chuckled himself right out of your room—grateful that this particular form of interaction between you and Sherlock wasn’t at his expense _for once._

When John was safely out of earshot, you picked at the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt and leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“I look forward to recovering so I can show you just how much I love you. You'll find that I'm quite fluent in the language. But only when it comes to you.”

Your fingers danced across his chest.

Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and shuddered. He firmly blinked three times before returning to the real world. Boring his eyes forward, he was determined to avoid your gaze and the shameless smirk you probably, no certainly, had cast across your impeccably divine—

_Damn John for shooting you._

He was an idiot.


	44. Bored

“You’re both hovering and it’s creepy.”

You dangled your legs over the side of your bed and glanced between Sherlock and John. Taking a step back, John cleared his throat and covered his mouth.

“We’re just worried. _I’m_ just worried.”

He looked at Sherlock who refused to remove his eyes from you. You grimaced at them both and groaned.

“I just want to be able to make it to the bathroom by myself and get a shower.”

“You don’t have to push it,” John pleaded.

You drew in a deep breath and threw your head back.

“For once, I agree with you.”

“You what?”

You raised your eyebrows.

“I agree with you. I’m not working an operation or hiding. They did a lot of work on my adhesions and if I heal right, they said I should have more mobility and comfort afterward. So I really don’t want to fuck this up.”

Your eyes flickered to Sherlock. With a smirk, you gestured for him to come over—determined to relieve the man of his suffering.

“Okay, fine. You can help me to the shower. But that's it. You can't stay.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you there.”

“Don’t let your hubris get in the way.”

“No, Sherlock.” You bit your lip and glanced down. “I-I don’t want you to see.”

He tilted his head to the side.

“I’ve seen it all before.”

“But not, not like this.”

“John cut you open in front of me.”

You held your breath, eyes pleading to John. He patted Sherlock on the back and cleared his throat.

“We’ll, um, we’ll get an actual nurse to help you today.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and scowled at John. You mouthed ‘thank you’ to him as he dragged Sherlock out of your room.

To your relief, a nurse arrived shortly after. For the most part, the hospital staff finally stopped shaking anytime they entered your room—as long as the detective was nowhere in sight.

Leaning on the wall outside your closed door, John dragged his hands over his face as Sherlock glared at him.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock scrutinized.

“She needed help.”

“Those quivering morons are ill-equipped.”

“Sherlock.” John threw out his hands. “Have you not noticed that she sends you out of the room whenever they change her bandages? Or have your deduction skills dulled?”

“Assumptions don’t fit you, John. She’s sparing them from my criticism.”

John let out a sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Yes. _And_ she doesn’t want you to see her in her current condition. They had to do a lot of work because not everything healed properly before. I saw it myself.” He cleared his throat. “On the reports.”

“That’s contradictory.”

John raised his eyebrows, unsure why he was bothering with this conversation.

“Why would she want me to see her _less_?” Sherlock gestured to your closed door. “Especially after…”

He blinked a few times and furrowed his brow before redirecting his gaze back to John. 

“I-I don’t care what she looks like.”

“That may be true. But _she_ does.”

“Why would that matter? Why does it matter at all?”

Pursing his lips, John shrugged and patted Sherlock firmly on the shoulder.

“Sometimes Sherlock, you’re not the smartest person in the room.”

He stood upright and put his hands in his jacket pockets. Sherlock’s jaw ticked as he stared at your closed door—hard drive firing away to piece together the remaining mystery.

“I’m going back to the flat again,” John interrupted his thoughts. “Do you want to come with? Bath and change?”

“No, I need respite from your useless conjectures.”

“Great, well you can put it together by yourself next time.”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

But when Sherlock looked back, he was, to prove his point, only talking to himself. 

After a handful of showers, countless bandage changes, and Sherlock making a mere three nurses run out of your room in tears, you finally got approval to head home.

_Much to the hospital’s relief._

When offered the choice between a wheelchair or walking, you surprised both John and Sherlock by requesting someone to wheel you out. Sherlock furrowed his brow as your eyes darted around the room.

“What? I promised John that I would take it easy.”

He opened his mouth to speak. But John put his hand on your shoulder with a firm squeeze.

“You’re doing great. You’ll be back to kicking both our arses in no time.”

He beamed at you and you gave him a sideways smile back.

“Right, no time.”

Holding your hand, John helped you into the wheelchair. Once seated, you bit your lip and adjusted as Sherlock disengaged the brakes. Now that you were officially discharged, he didn’t have to suffer through anyone else’s incompetence coming near you.

You leaned back to smile at him. But he refused to accept your attempt at reassurance. With a sigh, you swallowed and rubbed your hands on your knees.

“Alright, Hardy Boys. Let’s relieve these poor people of the wrath of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty. Although my medal of honor goes to Doctor John Watson for questioning every medical decision so intensely, that my _other_ doctor, you know, the one who didn’t shoot me, banned him from her presence.”

John rubbed the back of his neck and tittered.

“I just wanted to make sure they weren’t too lenient with you.”

Chuckling, you shook your head and beamed at him.

“I love you, John.”

“I love you too.”

Back at 221B, you steadied yourself on the railing and stared at the stairs in front of you. They looked so... _ordinary._ Yet, you couldn’t help but feel your heart race as you gripped the railing even tighter.

“You got this,” John affirmed next to you.

“Right.”

Sherlock appeared behind you after paying the driver and berating him for the corners he turned too quickly. He outstretched his hand to offer his assistance. But you, instead, latched your palm to John’s shoulder for support.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. He studied your every movement as you hobbled up the stairs. But when you were nearly to your intended destination, he flew past you and John to open the door.

With heavy breath, you smiled at him. 

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He gave you a nod. John started leading you to Sherlock’s room. But you pointed to the couch instead.

“I-I need...there. There’s fine.”

You plopped down with a groan. Reclining back, you rested your hands on your diaphragm and closed your eyes. You could feel the heat of their gazes upon you.

“You’ve both seen me in much worse condition. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

You opened one eye.

“I’m just tired. That really took it out of me. Let me nap in peace please?”

“Alright,” John conceded. “But if you need anything…”

“I’ll have no problem annoying you.”

With a chuckle, he gave you a nod before retreating to his room. Frankly, he was exhausted too. 

You closed your eyes with a sigh and gestured for Sherlock to lean in. He crouched next to you and traced his fingers over your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered open as you drowsily picked at his shirt collar.

“Go dissect something.”

“Not faking?”

“I don’t have to anymore.”

You trailed your hand up the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss.

“You’re very cute,” you murmured onto his lips.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Blame my compromised brain chemistry. But I do love you for your concern.”

He sucked in a breath and glanced down.

“I-I…”

Eyes fluttering closed, you placed your finger over his lips to silence him.

“Please, let me sleep.”

Sherlock stood upright and put his hands on his hips. His heart swelled with a mixture of relief and disappointment. The instigator of the emotional reaction, however, was still unknown. 

Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock examined your body as it drifted off to slumber. His lip twitched as he felt, for the first time since you entered his life, rather bored.

Your recovery from then on was painfully slow. Contrary to his initial expectation, Sherlock found his heart fluttering every morning at the sight of you next to him. Your presence was far less intrusive (and annoying) than any potential bedmate he ever anticipated.

As the sun trickled through the window, neither of you had the courage to open your eyes and face the new day ahead. You barely had the energy to do a few laps around the flat before collapsing back to bed every morning.

Sherlock buried his nose in the crook of your neck. You grumbled in reply to welcome him to this lazy Mon..was it Tues...someday. 

“I’m so bored,” you moaned.

“Case?”

“No, you go ahead.”

While you had little to occupy your mental faculties, Sherlock started taking on small cases here and there. In a matter of hours every morning, he eviscerated the growing pile of emails with the proverbial flick of his mind. 

He even had a few clients stop by the flat and invited you to join him and John. But every time he offered you relief from your exile of limited stimulation, you rejected him. Choosing to instead, lock yourself in his room and not even observe his brilliance.

_Waste of good deduction. Of course the husband was having an affair._

Instead, you haunted the flat as an exhausted shell. Your weariness was unsettling to both Sherlock and John. But Sherlock hoped your life force would soon pour through you once again. After all, your body was an impeccable vessel to carry it. No matter your opinion about its appearance.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock decorated the nape of your neck with a few generous kisses. As a small gasp escaped your throat, he knit his brows together as a new solution pinged in his mind.

_Perhaps he was taking the wrong approach to igniting the fire within you?_

You weren’t a high functioning sociopath who needed to solve crimes to stave off the prison of boredom. No, your intelligence was of a different composition than his. And to that, Sherlock might be able to finally relieve you of your suffering.

After all, you were his friend and the woman he, well, you loved him. Yes, you loved him.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around you and pressed your back to his chest. A lazy smile crept across your lips as your eyelids fluttered in pleasure, still refusing to fully let in the light. 

“I’m surprised you’re not sick of me yet,” you laughed.

“Me too.”

“What a way with words you have, detective.”

He chuckled into your hair as his hand found its way to your hip. You let your head fall back into his chest and let out a gentle breath.

“You and John should get back to it. Lost rabbits to find.”

He hummed in approval.

“I’ll find something to do,” you assured him. “I promise.”

Sherlock leaned in to kiss the tender flesh behind your ear. Cautiously, his hand trailed up from your hip as he took a deep breath. You could feel his chest rise and fall with yours.

When his thumb grazed the underside of your tee shirt to kiss your skin, your eyes flew open. You sucked in a breath and grabbed his wrist, stopping his curiosity in its tracks.

“I-I can’t. They told me it would be a while.”

He removed himself from you and you started to roll over. Holding his breath, Sherlock hovered his hand over you—ready to provide additional stability at any moment. 

But, with a few careless grunts, you successfully readjusted your position to see his face for the first time that morning.

“I admit that I am equally disappointed.” You stroked the side of his face with the back of your hand. “It’s killing me. But I really don’t want to overextend myself and regret it. Although, you might be the one exception that would make it worth it.”

He leaned in to kiss your forehead—stamping his smirk on you.

“I can hear your mind decaying,” he murmured before pulling away.

“Are you…” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you saying I’m getting _dumber_ before your very eyes?”

“You’re unstimulated.”

You sucked in a breath. 

“Please write me love poems disguised as insults. It’s _so_ stimulating.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. With a sigh, you rolled your eyes and cupped his face in your hand.

“Yes, I’m bored out of my mind. I might have to take up a hobby.”

“Such as?”

You snickered.

“I know better than to ask you for recommendations. The only body parts I’m interested in right now are ones I can’t have. But I _do_ have something else in mind.”

You leaned over and plucked a piece of paper from your nightstand and handed it to him.

Sherlock furrowed his brow at your list of requests. He predicted a myriad of possibilities for our new hobby of choice. Most of which involved violence of some kind. But _this_ , while he would never admit it, was not one of them.

“Do you think John would mind getting me a few things?” you asked.

“He’ll be relieved you’re asking for anything.”

“Good. I know that your pallet prefers salty and savory. But they say this is good for stress. So I thought I’d give it a go.”

Sherlock set the list down and cocked an eyebrow at you. _This_ he would have to see.

“And now that there are no cigarettes in the oven,” you continued, “I can put it to good use. The only question is…”

You wiggled your eyebrows at him. He couldn’t help but smile at the light in your eyes.

“Chocolate chip or snickerdoodle?”

Before Sherlock could reply, you swung your legs over the bed and stretched with a shameless grin written across your face.

“All of it!” you exclaimed. “I’m going to make all of them. I can do this.”

You turned to wink at him. 

“I’m going to be a baker today.”


	45. Sherlock Holmes Has a Type

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter Wright inspired by a variety of Criminal Minds characters.

Sherlock cleared the kitchen table of his experimental equipment. You weren’t allowed to touch any of it—although you weren’t entirely sure if it was for safety from his chemicals or annoyance. 

When John returned from the grocer’s, you gleefully dove into the bags to unveil your arsenal of baker’s supplies. It was the first time since Sherlock occupied 221B that the table housed so many ingredients that were safe for human consumption.

Supplies meticulously arranged, you rubbed your hands together and surveyed your options. Sherlock studied you from his chair while John put his hands on his hips from across the table.

“I’ve never done this before,” you whispered, strumming your fingers together. “But I’m an intelligent woman. I can figure it out.”

“Do you want help?” John asked.

You held up a finger and shook your head.

“No. I have to do this on my own.”

You smiled at Sherlock as his lip upturned in a smirk. But he furrowed his brow when his phone pinged for his attention next to John’s laptop.

“John—”

“On it.”

Rolling his eyes, John strutted over to hand off Sherlock’s mobile. The detective scrutinized the incoming request. How easy it must be for Scotland Yard to call for help when they were so, more often than not, woefully out of their depth.

Sherlock sprang to his feet and dashed to the door. He threw on his coat and stared at John with impatient eyes.

“It’s about the—” John started to ask.

“Wright confessions, yes.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at you. But you smiled and guested at your piles of flour, sugar, chocolate, and spices.

“I’ll be fine! I _am_ fine.”

“This is fine? You haven’t even asked me about—”

“Because I need to destress if I want my body to heal. So no, I don’t want to hear about this psycho or dead people. This is what normal people do, right?”

“You are not normal. Is this about Moriarty?”

You sucked in a breath and rolled your eyes.

“You boys have fun.”

You beamed at them both. But Sherlock furrowed his brow. His eyes flickered from the table contents and back to your face. While he was initially curious about your new choice in hobbies, it quickly became horrifically dull.

_You looked truly unsettling._

But before Sherlock could continue to scrutinize the vision of your domesticity, John patted him on the back and cleared his throat.

“She’s right. We’ll all have to be worried if _you’re_ the one who stays home.” 

“That’s not what I’m proposing.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you. But you shook your head in reply.

“You know that I can’t go with you,” you sighed. “I can only walk a few laps at a time.”

“It won’t be physically strenuous. We’re going to—”

“Come here.”

You outstretched your hands to guide him to you. Sherlock obliged and you wrapped your hands around his face, gazing upon him with soft eyes.

“Go enjoy your much needed dose of murder.”

“You’re not fine.”

“Perhaps, but I’m getting there.”

You lowered his face to yours to kiss him, praying that you could reassure his discomfort while simultaneously knowing that you couldn’t. He leaned back as his lip twitched to confirm that your comfort had no effect on him.

“When you return,” you hummed, “I will be here. Because I am very much in love with you.”

“And I l—”

“Now go solve the case,” you cut him off. 

With a swallow, you straightened the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and patted his chest. He pursed his lips as you shooed him away, both of you ignoring the disappointment that was written across his face.

Sherlock spun around and started strutting out the door. Eyes focused forward, he pointed backward as John grabbed his coat. 

“Leave your phone with her,” he commanded.

“Right.” John tossed his mobile to you.

You set it down on the table next to a bag of brown sugar, smiling at John as Sherlock dashed out the door.

“Thanks, I’ll get my own eventually.”

“If you need _anything_ —”

“I’ll call. I promise.”

He gave you a salute before exiting to catch up with Sherlock. The detective was already tapping his fingers along the door of the taxi and grumbling to himself.

His stomach twisted in a knot.

Surely, it was the case.

Greg was outside Pentonville Prison when Sherlock and John arrived. Covering his mouth, he cleared his throat and shook his head.

“He said he would only tell—”

“Me. Of course.”

“How is, um, your…”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Under his scrutinizing gaze, Greg rubbed the back of his neck and tittered.

“Fine,” John answered. “She’s fine.”

“Good, good.”

Greg nodded his head an unnecessary number of times before leading them inside the prison. After making their way through security, John cleared his throat and glanced at Sherlock.

“It’s better if she stays away from this guy. Especially given his...”

“That’s precisely what I’m afraid of.”

Standing outside the interrogation cell, Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back as Peter Wright blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. Leaving the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the notorious serial killer shuffled a deck of cards before slowly turning to sneer at the detective.

John swallowed the lump in his throat as the warden opened the door for them to enter. Sherlock and John sat across Wright as he spread the deck across the table with a smirk. He set down his cigarette in the ashtray and snickered.

“Well, well. A visit from a celebrity.”

“I could say the same to you,” Sherlock spoke lowly as he tilted his head to the side.

“I have earned my title, haven’t I? As for you, is this is your sidekick?”

Wright grinned at John as he shifted in his seat. The killer redirected his searing gaze to Sherlock and wrinkled his nose.

“Not my type.”

“Yes, your type is more…”

“Pretty,” Wright snickered.

“For the past seven days, you’ve revealed the location of a body. But why ask for me? And ask for me now?”

“You don’t need to play dumb with me, Holmes. I need an appreciative audience for my favorite of them all.”

Sherlock set his hands on the table and leaned forward.

“Where is Amelia Evans?”

“Hm, hm, hm. Where _is_ Amelia Evans?”

“Repeating the question. Don’t waste my time.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Are you here to confess or play games?

“Isn’t that why _you’re_ here, Holmes?” He gestured to the cards spread across the table. “Draw five.”

Sherlock bore his eyes into Wright. Shaking his head, the killer picked up his cigarette and breathed a slow inhale before blowing the cloud of smoke in Sherlock’s unblinking face.

“Why the rush? This is the best they’ve treated me in years. I’d like to savor it.” He set down his cigarette. “You’re too late to save her anyway.”

“And I would like to expedite your confession. I prefer to spend my time with more luminous individuals.”

“Like this one right here? A silent prodigy in the works?”

He gestured to John. But Sherlock refused to remove his gaze from him.

“No, like killers who haven’t been stupid enough to get caught yet.”

“And here I thought you came because I was special.”

Wright clicked his tongue and shook his head. He reached for his cigarette. But Sherlock snatched it up first.

“You’re a sexual sadist who gets off on strangling women as you assault them. The only reason you got caught was because you could only have sex with your girlfriend at the same sites where you attacked your victims.” 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and drew in a sharp inhale. 

“Your inability to manage your sexual urges is what put you here. And people say I have impulse control issues. But, to your credit, you are special. Just a special type of idiot. Now tell me where the body is so you can get out of my sight.”

Wright swallowed and straightened his posture. He raised his eyebrows at John.

“Does he talk like this to you too?”

Sherlock set the cigarette back down in the ashtray. John clasped his hands and set them on the table before leaning in.

“If I were you, I would stop asking questions and start answering them.”

“Is that a threat? Am I supposed to be scared?” Wright taunted.

John sprang to his feet and grabbed Wright by the collar of his jumpsuit. Shaking the man furiously, he clenched his jaw and growled.

“Yes,” John spat. “Because I am actually the one with a severe lack of impulse control. Especially when it comes to rubbish like you.”

Sherlock held out his hand and John threw Wright back into his seat.

Wright glanced down and wrinkled his nose. Readjusting, he slowly rose his head to glare at Sherlock.

“What a good dog you’ve trained, Holmes.”

John clenched his fists with a grip that drained all the blood from his knuckles. He was just about to sit back down. But Sherlock pushed out his chair and rose to his feet before buttoning his coat.

“Well, John. He clearly has nothing of interest to us. We best be on our way.”

Sherlock spun around as John began to follow suit. But he didn’t even have to take another step before…

“Wait!”

The corner of Sherlock’s lip upturned in a smirk. Wiping the evidence clean, he spun around and raised his eyebrows with an otherwise blank expression.

“Don’t you want to know why she’s my favorite?” Wright snickered. “Why I saved her for last? For you?”

“Your sexual preferences mean nothing to me.”

“Tell me, Holmes. Do you know how much work it takes to strangle a human being? It’s not enough just to make them go limp. The body begs to live. It will start breathing on its own even after they pass out.”

John swallowed and glanced at Sherlock. But the detective continued to stare down Wright.

“She was so scared at first. But toward the end, I swear, she was relieved. Relieved that I was taking away all the pain.”

“You think you were doing her a favor, you sick—”

John shoved a finger at Wright before slamming his fists on the table. Hanging his head, he drew in a breath and gritted his teeth.

“Of course, I would do anything to save her,” Wright hummed. “She’s the love of my life.”

“She’s the love of your life?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

“Now who’s repeating the smartest man in the room?” Wright tilted his head to the side. “Yes, she’s the only one who isn’t scared of me.”

Sherlock lowered his chin as his eyes went wide; his hypothesis confirmed.

“She’s _alive_?”

“But not for long,” Wright sang.

Sherlock and John exchanged a glance as the color drained from their faces. 

“Where is she?” Sherlock growled.

Wright’s lip upturned in a sneer as he gestured to the cards on the table. 

“Sit down, boys. Let’s play a game.”

Holding their breath, both men obeyed and took their seats in front of Wright.

In a seamless swipe, Sherlock compiled the cards back into a single pile. He slammed the deck on the table and bore his eyes into Wright’s. His jaw ticked as he set the cards in front of John.

“You’re not dealing from your own deck.”

Wright snickered and glanced at John.

“Is he _your_ type?”

He wiggled his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock gave John a nod to deal. After a deep breath, he started shuffling the cards.

For once, both of them knew where this was headed.

Wright set his elbow on the table and resumed smoking. He chuckled to himself as he gave Sherlock a sideways glance.

“For every hand I win, I’ll give you a clue. But wait!”

He threw out his arms in surprise and John stopped shuffling.

“You don’t have anything that I want,” Wright pouted. “A game is only as fun as the stakes at hand.”

He set down his cigarette and snickered.

“We can make arrangements with the warden,” Sherlock offered.

Wagging his finger, Wright clicked his tongue and frowned.

“Now, Holmes. I had higher expectations of your deduction skills. Especially after all of Jim’s praises.”

“No.”

“Wrong answer!” He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “But if you prefer to play coy Amelia may very well perish. It’s been eight days and they’ve probably run out of water by now.”

“They?” John asked, pupils blown wide open.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sucked in a breath.

“Twelve—”

“Years I’ve been in here,” Wright sang. “But not before I left a gift on the outside. Do you think she told him about me? About his legacy?”

Tapping his fingers on his knees, Sherlock swallowed. He shoved his chair out from underneath him and strutted out of the cell. Abandoning the cards and scrambling to his feet, John followed after him.

“I already know your type, Holmes!” Wright called out with his hands framing his mouth. “Because it’s the same as mine! I'm ready to play when you are!”


	46. American Roots in Pentonville Prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical Inspiration for the game is [How Did You Love by Shinedown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA1Sm3tvS0c).

Eyes level with the side of the bag, you slowly tilted it to the side. You studied the sugar as it poured on the scale, focus transfixed on every single grain as it fell. 

When the scale reached two hundred grams, you set down the bag and puffed out a breath. You tapped the spacebar on Sherlock’s laptop and the YouTube video continued playing.

“Then you’ll take that cup and a half of sugar,” the cheery woman smiled.

“Shit!”

You slammed the keyboard to pause and looked up the conversion, confirming you were one hundred grams short. With a groan, you pressed the heels of your palms to your forehead and threw your head back.

“I can encrypt a series of bank transactions but I can’t do basic math. Why!”

After an unknown number of conversion searches, you finally had all the ingredients in their (presumably) correct amounts inside the mixing bowl. Biting your lip, you wiggled in anticipation as you slowly mashed the mixture together with a wooden spoon and eventually with your fingers.

Beaming ear to ear, you looked down at what appeared to be chocolate chip cookie dough. You removed your hands from the fruits of your labor right as John’s phone started ringing from the end of the table. 

Your heart fluttered at the sight of Sherlock’s name on the caller ID, inspiring you to take note to get your own phone soon. Maybe you could make a habit of seeing it.

As quickly as you could, you spun around and rinsed your hands under the sink. You briskly shook them out before answering.

“Already done, my brilliant detective?”

But he didn’t reply.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you research him?”

You sucked in a breath.

“Yes.”

“Then you know—”

You started shaking your head. “You can do this without me, Sherlock. I-I can’t.”

“The last victim is alive and has a son.”

He slammed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“You know the type better than—”

“I know exactly what he wants. I’ll get ready now.”

“I wouldn’t…”

“I know. This whole operation reeks of Jim. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Leaning his head back, he drew in a deep breath. “I lo—”

You hung up the phone.

“Shit,” you whispered. 

Almost ready to redial, your question was answered with a single text.

_DON’T take a taxi. Grant is on his way._

You furrowed your brow. 

“Who the fuck is Grant?”

You threw your cookie dough into the refrigerator next to a bag of ears. After hobbling to Sherlock’s room, you changed into a low cut v-neck.

You pulled out a gold chain necklace and sucked in a breath. Rolling the golden rod between your fingertips, you clasped it around your neck and threw on your scarf.

You cautiously walked into the kitchen, tracing your hand along the table to steady yourself. Your curiosity about your mystery driver was quelled when Greg knocked on the door.

“Er, Sherlock said I’d be coming by!”

“Door’s open!”

“Are you...are you—”

“Yes, detective. I am fully clothed. Sorry to disappoint.”

Greg pursed his lips and slowly cracked the door open to enter. When he confirmed that you were in fact, decent, he let out the breath he was holding in. You gestured for him to come closer as you struggled to make it into the sitting room.

His eyes widened when he realized your intentions and dashed to your side. He wrapped his around your shoulder and placed your hand in his.

“I can make it around okay,” you breathed. “But if I’m going to last longer than three laps around this place, I’ll need your help.”

“Of course.”

Greg had to check his pace multiple times as he slowly led you to the door. When you got to the stairs, you whined and sucked in a breath.

With a gentle smile, he gave you a nod.

“I got you.”

You bit your lip and winked at him.

“Of course you do.”

He instantly retracted his gaze from you and stared into the floorboards as he led you down the stairs. They whined under your weight. Or maybe it was you. You couldn’t tell.

You panted in relief when you finally made it to Baker Street. 

Before removing himself from you, Greg confirmed that you were secure enough to stand upright. When you gave him a nod he opened the door and supported you as you slid into the passenger seat.

With a deep breath, you adjusted yourself as comfortably as you could. He hopped into the driver's seat and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Ready?”

“I’m always ready, detective.”

Greg tightened his hands around the steering wheel and started driving. You softly chuckled and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I might have to call you something different. Get me too drunk and I might end up in bed with the wrong detective.”

You giggled as he snorted an inhale, face instantly flushing with a radiant crimson. It was a shade you had yet to see on _your_ brilliant detective’s cheeks. 

Fingers fumbling for relief, Greg slammed a few buttons in a desperate plea for the radio to fill the silence. You couldn’t help but eye him periodically. 

You raised your eyebrows as he bore his eyes into the road ahead. Readjusting in your seat, you reached over and turned off the radio.

“You’re a lonely man, Greg Lestrade.”

“Wha?”

He tilted his head to the side and allowed his eyes to flicker to you for just a moment. 

“Did Sherlock tell you—”

You took a deep breath and gave him a soft smile.

“He didn’t have to.”

He swallowed and readjusted his hands on the steering wheel.

“And, er, how did you deduce that?”

“I’m fortunate enough to _not_ have a brain like Sherlock Holmes,” you chuckled. “Spend more time with me and you’ll see that too.”

You smiled at him.

“I can tell, Greg. I can just tell. If you ever need a friend, know that you’ve got me.”

Blinking a few times with wide eyes, he cleared his throat.

“Is that what you told Sherlock?”

“No, I tased him.”

He whipped his head around just long enough for his eyes to bug out at you. 

“I’m serious, Greg! He was utterly shocked!”

Placing your hand over your chest, you laughed. And, for once, Greg was on the same page and chuckled alongside you.

“I wish I could have seen that.”

“I’ll take pictures next time.”

You and Greg sat in silence for the rest of the ride to the prison. When you arrived, he opened the door and helped you up from your seat. At the front entrance, you pecked him on the cheek with a smile.

“I’ve got it from here, detective.”

Furiously tittering, he glanced down and rubbed the back of his neck. He failed to hide the scarlet flush against his cheek as you giggled at his expense.

Summoning all your strength, you took a deep breath and hobbled inside. You relinquished your gun at the security checkpoint and Greg led you back to Sherlock and John.

When you arrived at the private corridor where they were waiting, they instantly rushed to you. But you swatted away their eager hands with a laugh. 

“I got this, Hardy Boys. But I love you both for your concern.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“He wants to—”

“Check me out? Feel alive again at the thought of choking me? I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

You paused and set your hand on the wall to catch your breath as Sherlock cast remorseful eyes on you. A soft smile creeping across your lips, you caressed his cheek in your palm.

“Apologies are a good look on you. You should try them more often.”

He rolled his eyes with a huff and stepped away. After a deep breath, you glanced down at your body and looked back at the three pairs of concerned eyes.

“As you guys can probably tell, I can’t fight him for shit if anything goes wrong. So I need, I need…”

John put his hands on your shoulders and gave you a firm look.

“We’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You bit your lip and glanced at Sherlock. Heart breaking, you offered him a soft smile.

“You look like you’re going to spontaneously combust at any moment. Get over here.”

He swallowed and stepped next to you again. You wrapped your hand around his neck and drew him close to you. Grazing his cheek with yours, you leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“You invited me because you wanted me to stay away, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he murmured into your neck.

With a smirk, you pulled away and stroked the side of his face with your thumb.

“Finally figuring me out aren’t you?”

“He’s just like—”

“No, because this one got caught.” You winked at him. “Now, I’ll follow your lead, my brilliant detective. Let’s go interrogate your killer.”

Sherlock gave you a nod and you took a deep breath. With every ounce of strength you could muster, you marched behind him. Your stomach twisted in knots when you came into Wright’s field of vision.

He put his hand on his chest and shook his head. The guard opened the door and you stepped in with Sherlock and John.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Wright held up his finger. “I’m not interested in your dog, Holmes.”

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and narrowed his eyes.

“He’s not optional.”

“I think you’re forgetting who’s actually in charge here.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You’re right.”

He glanced at you. Narrowing your eyes, you turned your head to John and drew in a breath.

“We don’t need him,” you confirmed.

John’s eyes widened but you gave him a single nod. He sucked in a breath and, clenching his fists, walked out of the cell to watch you from the outside.

Holding your head high, you pulled out your chair. You and Sherlock took your seats as you eyed Wright. He set his hands on the table and leaned in.

“My, my, even Jim’s words do not do you justice, Mrs. Riley.”

“My friends call me Eve.”

“Well, Eve—”

You held up a finger to silence him.

“But you’re not my friend. You don’t get to call me anything.”

A fire ignited behind his eyes as he bit his lip. Without removing your gaze from him, you strummed your fingers over the deck of cards.

“Card tricks are cheap.”

“But the information I have isn’t.”

He raised his eyebrows. 

“Are you ready to deal, Mrs. Riley? I’m just dying to see what’s under that darling little scarf of yours.”

“Let the game begin.”

You furiously shuffled the cards and dealt two to Wright. He furrowed his brow at your small offering.

“No peeking,” you teased. He raised his hands as you plucked another two from the deck. 

Staring at Wright and licking your lips, you slid two cards across the table to Sherlock. His fingers grazed yours as he set his hand over them. Your eyes kissed his gaze for a brief moment during the exchange.

The glance didn’t go unnoticed by the party across the table as Wright’s jaw ticked.

Biting your lip, you burned one card by setting it aside. Then you carefully placed three cards face down at the center of the table. You raised your eyebrows at Wright.

“My American roots.”

“Of course.” He snickered before nodding to you. “For my first wager, I can tell you what they’re doing in their exile.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. After a breath, you turned to Sherlock and gestured to the table.

“Your bet, detective?”

“I’ll get you a new cigarette.”

“You know that’s not the addiction I’m interested in.”

Sherlock drew in a breath and swallowed. 

“The scarf comes off.”

He widened his eyes as Wright sneered in anticipation. Your eyes flickered between the two of them as you leaned over. You stroked the surface of the first card before rubbing the edge between your fingers.

“You boys are so kinky.”

You flipped the cards to reveal the Queen of Spades, Three of Diamonds, and Three of Hearts.

Sherlock cleared his throat and glanced at his Queen of Diamonds and Eight of Hearts. Your eyes flickered to him. But right as you were about to inspect his hand, Wright waved his finger in front of you.

“No peeking, Mrs. Riley. I require an impartial dealer.”

“I hardly call myself impartial when I’m a chip on the table.”

“And won’t your neck look beautiful on the chopping block?”

You swallowed and bore your eyes into him. 

“Check,” Sherlock interjected.

Wright raised his eyebrows. 

“You’re speaking out of turn, Holmes. Lady Luck not treating you right?” He glanced at his cards and swallowed. “Check.”

You nodded to Sherlock and added another card to the burn pile. With a smirk, you placed the turn card on the table with a flick of the cardstock.

Eight of Spades.

“I raise you—” Wright started.

Sherlock cleared his throat and set his cards down.

“I fold.”

Wright wrinkled his nose. “I expected more. No wonder Jim got bored of you.”

Leaning out of his seat, Wright shoved his cards across the table and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Off with you now.” 

He tilted his head to the side before sitting back down. You reached out to retrieve his discarded hand. But the moment your fingers hovered over the cards, Wright shot his hand out to snatch them back.

With the grating sound of metal on cement, Sherlock bolted up from his chair and seized Wright’s wrist in his hand. He yanked him across the table and sank daggers into him with his eyes.

“Not,” he growled, “part of my wager.”

Wright snickered and raised his other hand in the air in defeat. Feeling the movements of every joint in his fingers, Sherlock slowly released him. They sat back down and stared at you.

You raised your eyebrows at Sherlock before redirecting your gaze to Wright. After a deep inhale, your fingers danced across the surface of your scarf as you slowly unfurled it.

With the fabric between your fingertips, you outstretched your arm to free your neck in one swift movement. You dangled the discarded accessory to the side before letting it cascade to the floor.

Wright shifted in his seat to straighten his spine as his eyes widened. You gave him a teasing swallow before collecting the remaining cards on the table and adding them to the burn pile.

Tilting your head back, you dealt two cards to each of them. Then you set three more face down on the table. When you finished, you raised your eyebrows.

“Previous bet. I’ll tell you what they’re forced to do,” Wright proposed.

“She removes the necklace.” Sherlock tilted his head.

Wright bit his lip and eyed your gilded neckline. You drew in a breath and revealed the flop.

“Check.” Wright’s eyes darted from his cards to you.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “I raise.”

You cocked an eyebrow. Sherlock’s jaw ticked as he leaned forward. 

“The necklace comes off and,” he raised his eyebrows, “you can _have_ it.”

Wright chuckled. “Very well, Holmes. I’ll tell you the temperature of the air around their bodies.”

Fingers fiddling with the charm that dangled from your gold chain, you burned one card and set the turn card on the table. 

“Check.”

“Check.”

You bit your lip and burned another card. With a slow inhale, you revealed the river. When the card slapped against the metal, your eyes flickered between them. They each remained expressionless for a moment.

“Check,” Wright initiated.

“I raise.” Sherlock clenched his jaw.

Wright tilted his head to the side. With the slightest smirk, Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“She’ll put her hair up for you too.”

“You are too good to me,” he sneered. “And I’ll bless you with a special message from Jim.”

You sucked in a breath. Without removing their eyes from each other, Sherlock and Wright tossed their cards on the table. 

Wright’s two pair was no match for Sherlock’s three sixes. 

Grinding his teeth, Wright clenched the edge of the table and leaned in.

“Maybe you aren’t as easy after all,” he spat.

“Maybe you’re just as stupid as you seem.”

Wright sucked in a breath and crossed his arms.

“They’re paying penance for their greed in cool air. Moving stone by stone.”

“The fourth circle,” you breathed.

“Jim said you were clever. How I’d just love to take that neck and—”

“The message,” Sherlock cut him off.

Wright rolled his eyes and scowled at him. 

“All business with you. But I am a man of my word. Jim says that while you may call him a king,” he raised his eyebrows at you, “he prefers to be a saint these days.”

You narrowed your eyes at him then looked to Sherlock for answers. But he only blinked a few times in reply. Wright leaned back and crossed his arms.

“Told you my information was pricey.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “Keep them coming, Mrs. Riley.”

You narrowed your eyes and sucked in a breath.

The next three hands were a flurry of cards slapping on metal, throats clearing, jaws ticking, and the occasional twitch of a lip.

Sherlock lost the next round and you shoved your necklace across the table. Wrinkling your nose, you crossed your arms and glared at Wright. He plucked the gold in his hands and trailed it across the bridge of his nose. After sucking in a breath, his eyes flew open.

“And?” He raised his eyebrows at you. 

Grinding your teeth, you slowly leaned to the side and inserted your hand into the front pocket of Sherlock's shirt. His breath hitched as your fingernails scratch his chest.

Eyes never leaving Wright’s, you bit your lip as Sherlock leaned back and raised his eyebrows. You withdrew an elastic from his pocket and started pulling up your hair.

Sherlock erased his expression from his face. All while internally wondering…

... _when the hell did you put that there? And how had he not noticed?_

The next hand resulted in you undoing your previous work and shaking out your hair. Sucking in a breath, you laid your head down on the table. Chills crawled up your spine as your skin pressed against the cool metal.

Sneering, Wright leaned over to stroke your hair. He lifted your locks to his nose and inhaled your scent like an animal in heat. Your lip quivered as you stared at Sherlock. But his eyes were locked on Wright.

“Don’t worry, Holmes. I know better than to test your limits.”

He removed himself from your hair and shook out his face. After a swallow, you gripped the bottom of your chair. It pressed an indent in your skin as you slowly rose upright.

You gave Sherlock a nod and dealt the next round. Much to Wright’s pleasure, you avoided eye contact with him.

Sherlock won the next hand with a full house and Wright grumbled a story about a successful merchant named John Clarke and his grandson.

In 1803, the young man was only sixteen-years-old when he made a two-day journey to Exeter. 

Eventually, he followed the family legacy and took over the business. But his focus shifted as he became increasingly interested in a product other than the traditional grocery items the family was known for.

As Wright told the story, his eyes never left yours. But when you furrowed your brow in confusion, you could see Sherlock tilting his head to the side out of the corner of your eye. 

When Wright was finished, you threw the cards on the table to deal the next hand.

“I will tell you the rest of the story about the family business.” Wright raised his eyebrows.

“You’ll,” Sherlock closed his eyes and grinded his teeth, “get a piece of her hair.”

You drew in a deep breath and revealed the flop.

_Ten of Clubs. Jack of Clubs. Ten of Spades._

Sherlock inspected his cards and swallowed. Wright snickered at the sight.

Clenching his jaw, Sherlock stared at the cards on the table. “Check.”

“Speaking out of turn again? So ready to get this over with, Holmes?”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. 

“No, no. I’m not letting you off that easy. I’m going to bed every night with her locks under my pillow. I raise you with a street name.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Wright set down his cards and leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

“And you better have something just as good. Or I’ll go ahead and pluck those hairs from her head myself.”

With a hard swallow, Sherlock drew in a breath and slammed his eyes closed. He blinked a few times and bore his eyes into Wright. Lip twitching, he hissed.

“You can watch.”

“How similar are we, Holmes? Do spell it out for me.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. 

“You can watch,” he sucked in a breath, “while I choke her.”

Your eyes blew wide open as Wright threw back his head and howled in laughter.

“Now you’re really showing who you are.” He rested his elbow on the table and gestured to you. “Go ahead, Mrs. Riley. I can’t wait to see this.”

Glaring at Sherlock, you flipped over the turn card and sucked in a breath. 

_Eight of Clubs._

Wright slammed his hand on the table and pointed at Sherlock.

“I raise you. I’ll tell you exactly how much time they have left.”

“We’ll record it. So you can watch over and over again.”

Wright snickered. “The only reason you know what I want is because you and I are exactly the same.”

“And yet, who goes to bed behind bars every night?”

With a twitch of his nose, Wright sat back in his seat and glared at you.

“C’mon now!” he barked. “Give us that last one, Mrs. Riley!”

Holding your breath, you flipped over the river as your heart started thumping like mad in your chest. You swallowed and glanced down before looking at Sherlock.

_Ten of Hearts._

Wright drew in a deep breath and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. 

“I’m all in. I’ll give you the information you’re really interested in. Why now? Why confess now after twelve years of rotting away?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But Wright held up a finger to silence him.

“The only way you can match me is if I get to do it _myself_.”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock glanced at you with wide eyes. You bit your lip and shook your head. But he snapped his gaze back to Wright’s.

“Deal.”

“Ooooh.” He turned his head to you and set his cards down. “I can’t wait to make you mine. Quads.”

His eyes flickered from the three tens laid out to Ten of Diamonds in front of him. Wright pushed out his chair and rose to his feet. But Sherlock threw his cards to the table to command the attention of the room.

_Seven and Nine of Clubs._

“Straight flush,” he spat.

Seething with rage, Wright lurched across the table to grab you. But Sherlock sprang to his feet and latched his palm around his throat. Clenching his jaw, he clamped down and growled at him.

“Is this what you liked so much? Because I’m starting to see why.”

Sherlock dug his nails into his skin.

“Sherlock,” you breathed.

“Now tell me.”

“I already gave you the street name,” he choked and slapped Sherlock’s forearm.

“I am DONE playing your games. Tell me where they are _now._ ”

“The message from Jim. That was...that was the name.”

With a grunt, Sherlock released Wright and he collapsed in his seat. Coughing, he buckled over.

“Saint James?” Sherlock tilted his head with a searing gaze.

Hand wrapped around his throat, Wright wheezed as he propped himself upright.

“And the grandson liked, liked—”

“Wine,” Sherlock finished. He turned to Greg. “Under Berry Brothers and Rudd on Saint James Street. There’s a passage from the shop to the palace and they’re in the section that’s sealed off by brick.”

Greg gave him a nod before dashing down the hallway. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Wright. 

“And I don’t need you to tell me you’re dying. These aren’t confessions of a guilty conscience. They’re a deathbed plea for attention. Milking the last you can before whatever disease you have takes over.”

Sherlock placed his hands on the table.

“Sherlock…” You put your hand over his. But he only leaned in and snarled at Wright.

“I can guarantee you that it’s not moving fast enough.”

“GREG!” you shouted. John furrowed his brow at you. But you furiously jabbed your finger as a silent plea for him to fetch the Detective Inspector.

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock whipped his head around to stare at you. But you were already hobbling to the door. With heavy breath, John and Greg returned right as you exited the cell.

“You have to know, they’re already dead.”

Greg upturned his lip. “What? But he just...”

He gestured to Wright who only confirmed your conclusion as he started chuckling lowly.

“They are where he says,” you nodded. “But if he’s dying, he won’t let them live. They’re his to own in life and in death. They were dead before we even got here.”

“How do you know for sure?” John furrowed his brow.

“It’s what my husband would have done. They’re his final victims.”

You gazed on them with sorrowful eyes. 

“You can still rush if you want. But you won’t, you won’t make it time.”

“Because it’s too late to save her,” Sherlock breathed.

Wrapping his arms over his chest, Wright threw back his head and howled in laughter.

“You were right, Holmes. It was a deathbed plea for a bit of fun. I needed one last game and Jim gave it to me!”

Mouth slightly open, Sherlock stared at you. But you could only shake your head as you pursed your lips. Sherlock yanked Wright up by the front of his jumpsuit. You grabbed the bars and called out to him.

“Sherlock, don’t bother!”

He snapped his gaze to you and your eyes flickered from the scarf on the floor and back to him.

“Let’s just go home, please.”

Sherlock threw Wright back in his seat before picking up your scarf and exiting. The door slammed shut and the deadman chuckled lowly.

“What a good dog you’ve trained, Mrs. Riley.”


	47. Broken Hearts & Cursed Cookies

The guard at the prison entrance slid a plastic bin to you. When you reached for your gun, you furrowed your brow at the additional contents inside.

“That’s not mine.” You pointed to the lonely mobile.

He shrugged and shook the bin: a request for you to relieve him of your presence. With a huff, you snatched the phone and limped outside.

Sherlock gave you a look. But the phone started ringing for your attention before you could focus on him. Rolling your eyes at the unknown caller ID, you cleared your throat and answered.

“And here I was just starting to call you my friend, Jim.”

“Isn’t this what friends do? Play together?”

“Did you know about the hair kink? That was just...gross.”

“Didn’t think you’d be one to kink shame, Eve.”

You sucked in a breath and leaned on the outside wall of the prison. Sherlock outstretched his hands to steady you. But you waved your arm and shook your head. Pursing his lips, he put his hands in his coat pockets and glanced down.

“Did we pass your little test?”

“I wasn’t testing you.”

“I’m uninterested in the language. Call it a game, call it a test. It’s all the same with you.”

“Now, Eve. Don’t be ungrateful. This was a gift.”

“What a love language you have, Jim Moriarty.”

“Only for you, my muse,” he chuckled. “How would you like me to do it?”

Glancing at Sherlock shifting his weight, you put the phone on speaker and held it out so he could listen.

“Wasn’t that part of your contract with him?” you announced through the air. “Make it efficient to spare him the indignity?”

“Yes, but I wanted to give you a chance to do it all over again. He’s so like someone else I know you would have loved to kill.”

You swallowed, eyes flickering to Sherlock’s for a moment before they returned to the mobile.

“I’m going to have to chat with my consultant first.”

You ended the call before Jim could reply. After tucking the phone in your back pocket, you wrapped your arms around Sherlock’s neck and smiled.

“How do you recommend I proceed, my brilliant detective?”

He smirked and raised his eyebrows.

“You already know.”

“Yes, I do.”

With a gentle flex of your arms, you guided him to you for a kiss. When his lips were a breath away from yours, the phone in your pocket rang to steal back your attention. 

Sherlock started to pull away but you shook your head and brought his lips to yours. The mobile rang until it was a mere second away from going to voicemail. You finally withdrew from the kiss and answered, still breathing the same air as Sherlock.

“Let the disease take him, King James.”

“You’re getting slow on me. You want me to fail my end of the contract?”

“You hardly care about integrity. Let him live out the rest of his days believing he’ll get quick relief. But only to be picked apart organ by organ.”

“And here I thought you were trying to disappoint me.”

“Oh, Jim. I told you from the beginning...” 

You leaned in to kiss Sherlock again. He raised his eyebrows but graciously accepted your affection, tasting the hunger on your lips. Breath caught in your throat, you pulled away just long enough to breathe a final message into the phone.

“I’m a woman who delivers.”

With a clatter of metal on pavement, you tossed the useless mobile aside. You drew Sherlock in for another kiss. But, having nothing to prove anymore, your touch softened under his. He carefully studied the differences in the language of your lips.

Eventually pulling away, Sherlock cupped your face in his hands and drew in a breath. 

“Still...you?”

“I have cookie dough in the fridge next to your bag of ears. Definitely not Moriarty.”

He released an exhale and relinquished your face. Placing your hand on your stomach, you sucked in a breath and raised your eyebrows. When you were upright, he gave you a single nod in return to your silent request.

_Yes, it was time to go home._

Narrowing your eyes at the oven timer, you tapped your foot and scrunched your face. The flat filled with the sounds of John’s keyboard as he typed away in the sitting room.

“Even you can’t bend time to your will,” he muttered without removing his eyes from the screen.

With a huff, you brought yourself upright and glared at him. But knowing it was a useless gaze, you succumbed to his advice and took a seat. Elbows on top of the kitchen table, you cradled your chin in your hands and sighed.

“I just wanted to be normal for a day.”

“That’s what I thought too.”

John slammed the enter key before closing his laptop. Turning to you, he rested his forearm on the desk and raised his eyebrows.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired. But my pain is fine.”

He shook his head.

“No, about….you know.”

His eyes flickered downward and back to you. But you cocked an eyebrow in return. 

“I’m fine, John.”

Drawing in a deep inhale, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He gave you _that_ look and nodded to Sherlock sitting in his chair. Entranced in his mind palace with closed eyes, he was utterly uninterested in your conversation; barring the intermittent twitch of a lip.

“He can’t hear a word we’re saying right now, can he?” you asked.

Pursing his lips, John shook his head.

“He’ll follow up about the chemical effects of baking powder in about an hour.”

You tilted your head to the side and gazed upon your detective.

“It must be exhausting. Having all that mental energy.”

“Yes, he’s quite burdened by his genius and loves to remind us.” John rolled his eyes. “But back to _you_ …”

“Right,” you hummed before returning your focus to John. “I am okay. I promise you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “It was really all an act?”

“I’ve never had a partner to work with. But he does a brilliant job, doesn’t he?”

With a gentle laugh, you smiled at Sherlock. “He’s fluent in the unspoken.”

“I don’t think it’s just him,” John chuckled.

For a few breaths, you both watched Sherlock as his thoughts swam through a myriad of outcomes and possibilities to a problem yet to be solved. Eyes still closed, Sherlock furrowed his brow and drew in a breath. But, John, the ever determined man, returned his focus to you.

“I know that you’re okay right now,” he cleared his throat.

Your breath hitched as you tore your eyes away from Sherlock: instead, meeting the concern written across John’s face.

“But if that should ever change,” he continued, “if you’re ever _not_ okay, you can let me know.”

You glanced down and picked at your fingernails. With a hard swallow, you met his gaze and gave him a nod. You were spared the vision of his somber smile when the oven timer ripped through the silence.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“When moistened in dough, baking powder incites a chemical reaction that produces carbon dioxide gas, creating an inflated effect. Too much, however, and you create air pockets that rupture and collapse.”

He sprang to his feet and pushed you out of the way from the open oven door, ripping the oven mitt from your hand. His eyes flickered backward for a moment before yanking the tray out and slamming it on the hob. 

After tossing the mitt aside, Sherlock put his hand on his hips to scrutinize your work. He spun around and raised his eyebrows at you.

“Which apparently, is exactly what you did.”

“Sherlock…” John groaned from behind him.

Mouth slightly open, you glanced between your sunken cookies and his stupid, albeit beautiful, face. 

“You are just—”

“Correct. It’s simple chemistry, really. But your results say you should forgo this venture in favor of a _hobby_ that might better suit your skill set.”

Closing your eyes, you drew in a deep breath. When you opened them again, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at your soft gaze.

“I am completely in love with you.” You stared into his eyes.

“And I—”

“No, come here.”

Furrowing his brow, he took a step forward. With a smirk, you hooked your fingers through his belt loops and yanked him even closer. Snaking your hand around his waist, you trailed your fingers across his back. You applied generous pressure with your fingernails to scratch him along the way.

John, seeing the look in your eyes, smirked and covered his mouth. 

When he was close enough, you caressed the side of Sherlock’s face. Your eyes flickered to his lips as you stroked his cheekbones with your thumb. Drawing in a luxurious inhale, you allowed your eyes to meet his again.

His mind filled with a running line of question marks as he tried to decipher your gaze. But just as he caught the flicker of mischief in your eyes, Sherlock couldn’t pull away before you shoved a cookie into his slightly open mouth.

Scrunching his face, he bit down on your vile concoction and spat it out.

John clapped his hands together and bent over in laughter. 

“Apparently he’s not fluent enough yet.”

You snickered as Sherlock furiously tried to erase any residual crumbs from his tongue. Enjoying the detective’s suffering, you wrapped your hands around the side of his and smiled upon him.

“Fuck you, asshole.”

He wrinkled his nose and widened his eyes. “Well, you’re not doing it.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Your hands flew from his face. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, I wouldn’t make her endure even the residual taste of your baking.”

“That’s it!”

You put your hand on the counter to start turning around. But not before you raised your eyebrows at John.

“I followed the recipe to the letter. He’s just being a drama queen. If you want some, have at it. But I’m going to lie down.”

John gave you a pitiful smile. Rolling your eyes, you hobbled to Sherlock’s bedroom; leaving a few disgruntled grumbles in your wake.

Sherlock spun around just as John popped to his feet. Putting his hands on his hips, he smiled at the detective.

“She really got you.”

“Oh, shut up!”

John shrugged and walked over to pluck a cookie from the tray. Furrowing his brow, he glanced at Sherlock.

“Are they...are they really that bad?”

“What do I know? I’m a drama queen.”

He waved his hands in the air before stomping towards his room. But, stopping outside the cracked door, Sherlock put his hands on his hips and drew in a breath.

“You can pout in here if you don’t insult me,” you called out.

Placing his fingers on the door, he swallowed before entering. Sherlock crawled into bed and curled up next to you. With his laptop resting on your legs, you scratched his head before planting a kiss in his curls.

“I’m getting John some new sweaters. Do you want to help?”

He buried his face in your neck and grumbled.

“No dark shades. They wash him out.”

“Thank you, my love.”

You adjusted your search settings and continued to browse for a peaceful moment. Finding a delightful cream colored option, you pointed to the screen and raised your eyebrows.

“Your thoughts? I expect your full report. Don’t hold back on me, Holmes.”

Sherlock drew in a breath and nodded at the screen. You furrowed your brow.

“What’s wrong?”

Propping himself up on one hand, he captured your gaze and paused.

_One breath._

_Two breaths._

_Three._

“You know that I—”

Your chest tightened and you cleared your throat.

“Size. What size should I get him?” Pursing your lips, you pointed at the screen. “I know you're weirdly good with this type of stuff.”

Sherlock swallowed and made a few adjustments before adding the jumper to your cart. With a nearly inaudible whine, he curled back into your healing body and sighed.

His mind palace failed to yield any new insights about the mysteries of love confessions. It was time to escalate his investigation.

Outside Sherlock’s room, John cautiously sniffed a cookie before taking a bite. His eyes blew wide open as he was forced, like his flatmate, to instantly spit it out. Quite honestly, Sherlock’s review was a kindness to your baking abilities.

While John could try to dismiss the lingering taste in his mouth, he could not ignore the hard work you put into these devilish treats. He put them into a container and left it on the counter. 

Every day when you were out of sight, he quietly removed one or two; sending them to their inevitable fate by tossing them in the bin outside.

His only wish, other than sparing your broken heart, was that the birds wouldn’t fall over dead if they dared to pick at them.

Because, even if you didn’t accept it, John knew that you weren’t okay. But, unlike his two insufferable friends, he would never push you to keep up with him.

You would get there someday. And he would be there.

_No matter what._

After all, that’s what you do for family.


	48. Experimentation with Matters of the Heart

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock took a deep breath and stared straight forward. He pursed his lips, carefully noting the meticulous maneuvers of his tongue. He had to deliver every syllable with the utmost precision.

“I…”

He titled his head to the side.

“Love….”

Breath hitched.

“You.”

He narrowed his eyes to scrutinize every microexpression in the mirror. But once again, the results were inconclusive. 

With a huff, he spun around and pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. 

After recording these three words twenty-six different times, his initial experimentation provided no insight. He analyzed each sound byte at least thirty-three times each. 

Yet, Sherlock could not identify anything in the tenor of his voice nor the diction of his words that would make you find him so repellent.

Initially, he was grateful you spared him the obligation of reciprocation. But now, even if it was simply curiosity getting the better of him, you provided no opportunity for him to observe your response to his own confession of love.

Emotion is common. Logic is rare.

And thus, Sherlock refused to allow the whimpering of his loathsome heart to nag at the stronghold of his mind. He would not dare theorize before he had more data. He simply needed more evidence.

While Sherlock would never admit it, there appeared to be observations that even he was prone to miss. Particularly when it came to his facial expressions and overall demeanor—as John so loved to point out.

Unfortunately for him, the inconclusive results of his first two experiments required yet another escalation in involvement. While Sherlock was already rolling his eyes at this next line of investigation, he knew it was necessary to unravel the mystery at hand.

The three words that inspired countless women to throw themselves to men's feet.

The three words that made his heart flutter when spoken from your lips.

The three words that you, for whatever Godforsaken, utterly illogical reason, refused to let him say.

Sherlock Holmes had a new case to solve.

What _was_ wrong with his face?

Just as Sherlock threw open the bathroom door, his mobile rang for attention. He raised his eyebrows at the unfamiliar number and answered a millisecond after the first ring.

“And now you have my number,” you sang. “Hopefully I can keep this one for longer than a few months. Can I get you something to eat before we get back?”

“Actually—”

“Trick question, my beautiful detective. I’m doing it now. Well, John is. He’s inside and I’m waiting in the cab.”

Sherlock smirked. He could practically see you beaming as you stared out the window.

“Oh! I texted Greg to get his opinion on walnuts in brownies,” you continued. “But I should have asked you. What do you deduce that he would like?”

“Also a trick question. Neither. Not if you’re making it.”

“You are so cranky these days! John likes my baking. He’s the one who suggested I make some for Greg and the rest of your police friends.”

“They are not my…” he groaned. “Are you two trying to murder all of Scotland Yard?”

“No! I’m trying to...oh, nevermind. Greg just texted me back.”

“He likes—”

But you already hung up.

“Walnuts,” Sherlock whispered to himself.

Rolling his eyes, he sent John a text.

_You’ll be arrested for co-conspiracy if anyone remotely competent survives her brownies. SH_

The reply was instant.

_I told him to play along. She needs someone to take care of who isn’t a complete cock. So...not you._

Grumbling, Sherlock shoved his mobile in his pocket before sitting in his chair. Pressing his fingertips to his lips, he cocked an eyebrow and started planning the next phase of his experiment. For once, not minding if he would be interrupted. As long as it was you limping through the door.

The next morning, Sherlock and John woke up before you. Since you were, to both their relief, sleeping more these days, it wasn’t unusual for you to wake up to the sounds of their inevitable bickering.

Examining the retention rates of various liquids in muscle tissue under his microscope, Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the sitting room when John finally plopped down in his chair. Hair still damp from the shower, John threw open the newspaper and started reading.

But his moment of peace was interrupted when Sherlock cleared his throat. Bringing the paper to his knees, John raised his eyebrows as the detective stood before him. With his hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock lowered his gaze and bore his eyes into John.

John blinked a few times to clarify the unsettling vision. But Sherlock only narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side.

“Er...I will probably regret asking. But can I help you with something?” John asked.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and stood upright.

“John, there is something I have to tell you.”

“Oh God. What did you do?”

“I haven’t said it explicitly. It felt unnecessary and an insult to even your intelligence because you should already know.”

“Even, even my?” John narrowed his eyes.

“But there comes a time when even the implicit must be stated.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and swallowed.

“I…”

John threw the paper aside and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh God. Where is the body? Why didn’t you just call Molly?”

“Love you.”

“I love you too. But how is that going to—”

Blinks firing away in rapid succession, John snapped his gaze back to Sherlock.

“You?”

“Don’t make me say it again.” Sherlock pursed his lips.

Confusion written across his face, John furrowed his brow. He glanced at the floor before returning his eyes to Sherlock.

“There’s no...no body?”

“Nope.” He popped the last syllable. 

“Oh, alright then.” John took a deep breath and picked up the abandoned paper. With a hard swallow, he opened it up to resume reading. But after a moment, he cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Is there anything else? Need to tell me how much you—”

“No, that’s all.”

Sherlock stammered away. He positioned himself in front of his microscope. But he could only focus for, at most, seventeen seconds before glancing at the door to his bedroom. Pursing his lips, he shook his head and deserted the futile quest for knowledge.

He sulked to his bedroom and, upon confirming you were sound asleep, curled up next to you. You woke up to the gentle kiss of his nose along your neck. The sensation ignited a giggle from your throat as you threw your hand into his hair.

Sherlock was still a foggy blob as your eyelids fluttered open. But eventually, you managed to trace the side of his face and draw his lips to yours.

“Bored of arguing with John every morning?” you sang.

“Just bored.”

With a smirk, your head fell back to the pillow as he rested his head on your shoulder. You smiled at the ceiling.

“Do you need me to murder some people for you, my love?”

“I would know it was you.”

“Yes, you would. I could travel across the world and use a technique I’ve never wielded before and you’d still know that it was me. Not much fun for you when you have the answer key is it?”

He hummed in agreement. The melodious rumble from his throat amplified when you tossed your fingers into his hair and massaged his scalp.

“Greg liked my brownies.”

“He is an idiot.”

“Why are you always so cruel to the people who care about you?”

“You insult me daily.”

“Because you deserve it.”

Sherlock whined and flopped over, draping his arm across your chest. You raised your eyebrows and turned your head to face him.

“I am deeply in love with you.” You stroked his nose with a smirk. “But it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more tolerable over the next few days. And if it did, at least it would give you something else to do.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is _that_ what you want?”

“For us to go a day without you insulting me? It would be a nice change of pace.”

“No, for me to tell…” He tilted his head to the side.

Tracing the side of your cheekbone, Sherlock studied every minute detail of your face. You gently smiled at the softness in his eyes. He couldn’t explicitly read whatever lurked beneath the surface of your expression. But, gathering his own conclusion, Sherlock knew to move forward with his investigation.

“I’m going to bake Mrs. Hudson some cookies today.” You smiled. “You know, to thank her for letting me buy the building.”

“The best way to thank her would be to—”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and glanced down. Pursing his lips he closed his eyes before returning his gaze to you.

“Let me take them to her myself. To make up for all the damage I’ve done to the wall.”

You cocked an eyebrow.

“It’s my building now. Shouldn’t you be apologizing to me?”

“Do you need me to?”

You smirked. “No.”

Inching across the bed, Sherlock leaned in and placed a kiss on your cheek. Your breath hitched as his lips grazed your skin, mind curiously exploring the different sensation of this new touch from him.

When he pulled away, you tittered and tucked your hair behind your ear.

“Can you get John for me?” You raised your eyebrows. “He said he wanted to check…today.”

Biting your lip, your eyes glanced down your body. Sherlock gave you a single nod before peeling himself from the bed. 

Taking a deep breath, he went to fetch the doctor for you...knowing full well that he wasn’t allowed in the room when he entered.

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock glanced at the plate of lopsided snickerdoodles and back to Mrs. Hudson’s front door. He sucked in a breath before pursing his lips. Fist meeting wood, he offered two firm knocks on the door and held his breath.

The locks on the other side rattled.

“John, the new airing time is set for _Thursday_ not—”

But Mrs. Hudson’s eyes went wide when she saw Sherlock standing before her. Furrowing her brow, she glanced down at his rapidly tapping foot. She narrowed her eyes at the plate of cookies before leaning on the doorway and cocking an eyebrow at him.

“What do you want?”

He let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes.

“Nothing.”

Sherlock shoved the plate into her hands.

“She made these. Do not eat them. Do not touch them. But—” He raised his eyebrows. “—tell her you loved them.”

Pursing his lips, he gave Mrs. Hudson a curt nod.

“Before she has to ask you. If possible.”

Raising the plate to her eye level, Mrs. Hudson examined your work and snickered.

“These do look truly dreadful.”

“They taste even worse. I guarantee it.”

With a smile, she raised her eyebrows at him.

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

His breath hitched.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Well, go ahead.”

After a hard swallow, Sherlock drew in an inhale. His eyes flickered to the floor before he looked Mrs. Hudson straight in the eyes.

“I love you.”

“Oh!” She scoffed and waved a hand at him. “I know that, dear.”

He furrowed his brow and glanced to the side, the processors of his hard drive firing away.

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked.

“Um, no.”

“Well, I need to get back to—”

“Jazzercise,” he whispered.

Sherlock finally looked back up, mouth slightly agape. He was just in time to take in the sight of Mrs. Hudson smiling at him as she closed the door.

He dutifully filed away the result of his second trial before spinning around and heading back downstairs.

Still asking himself the same question from the beginning of his experimentation:

What was _wrong_ with his face?


	49. Sherlock's Church of Modern Day Deductions

You woke up one morning to the sound of Sherlock’s violin drifting through the flat. Eyes still closed, you drew in a deep breath and placed your hand over his side of the bed. Your skin tingled upon the cool touch of the sheets.

Drawing in a deep breath, you swung your legs over the side and rubbed your eyes. With a gentle smile, you enjoyed your ceremonial stretch as the soft melody lingered through the air.

Your toes kissed the floorboards as you crept to the crack in the bedroom door. Facing the window, Sherlock played with his back to you. You wrapped your hand around the doorframe and drank in the sight, admiring the calculated movements of his musician’s fingers.

A silent chuckle tickled your chest as you quietly turned around. You lurked to his wardrobe and plucked a particular item from the depths of his shelves. Pacing your breath, you snuck behind him with a smirk across your face.

John peeked at you over his laptop screen. But you placed a finger over your mouth to request his silence. He obliged and continued typing away—eyes flickering between his work and your precise movements as you tiptoed across the sitting room.

Your heart thumped from inside your chest as you inched closer to Sherlock. Pursing your lips, you smiled as his bow glided through the air upon his command.

Your breath caught in your throat as you threw your arm out. But just before the deerstalker had a chance to grace his curls, Sherlock spun around and rammed the end of his bow to your sternum.

“Dammit!” You threw your head back and sighed, hat still in hand.

“John stops typing without so much as a groan _only_ if something else catches his interest.”

He withdrew his bow from your chest. Clearing your throat, you stood upright and gave John a sideways glance.

“Well,” you shrugged, “it was worth a shot.”

You snapped your gaze back to Sherlock and slammed the hat to his head. He rolled his eyes as you beamed at him.

“Satisfied?” He raised his eyebrows.

“If you need to ask, perhaps your deduction skills are dulling, detective.”

You pecked him on the lips.

John crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, delight written across his face.

“You’re feeling better,” he observed.

You turned your head to him and grinned.

“Just look at me go, Doctor!”

As you wiggled your shoulders, you returned your eyes to Sherlock—just in time for him to erase the smirk upon his lips. His delight, however, did not go unnoticed by his less observant companion from across the room.

“I have a confession.” You put your hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and took a deep breath. “I’ve been visiting—”

“Mrs. Hudson,” he finished for you.

“Yes, that’s been obvious. But I’ve actually been—”

“Exercising with her.” 

He raised his eyebrows at you.

“Exer—what? No. I mean, you knew?”

“Yes, that’s also been obvious.”

Furrowing your brow, you glanced at the floor. You returned your eyes to Sherlock’s and tilted your head to the side, pointing a finger between him and John.

“Did you…?”

Pursing his lips, John gave you a nod. Your eyes flickered between them with your mouth slightly open.

“So you both knew and you didn’t push me to….”

You furrowed your brow. But John looked down and shook his head with a smile.

“It was only a matter of time.”

“Hmph.” 

You cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock and relieved his head of the iconic hat, securely transferring it to yours. You wrapped your hands around the side of his face and brought him into a kiss. You could feel the smirk across his lips as you pulled away.

“Well then, I think we should go out today and celebrate my new bodily freedom. What do you say?”

Grinning ear to ear, John popped to his feet and rubbed his hands on his trousers. He walked over and wrapped his arms around you. For once, you welcomed and eagerly reciprocated the embrace.

“That sounds fantastic,” he said as he leaned back. 

You shook him by the shoulders and he smiled at the light in your eyes.

“We can get you more sweaters!”

John held up his hands and furiously shook his head. 

“You’ve already bought me plenty. I don’t even know where to put them anymore.”

Your eyes widened. “Then we can get you more jackets.”

“Please, you don’t have to buy me any more clothes.”

You spun around to face Sherlock. But before the words could leave your mouth, he pointed his violin bow at you and gave you a stern look. You tilted your head to the side and pouted.

“You’re so pretty though. I could get you all sorts of new shirts.”

“Don’t.”

“Hats?”

He rolled his eyes just as John cleared his throat.

“And what about you?” the doctor inquired.

“Me?”

“Yeah, I’ve only ever seen you wear…” John tilted his head to the side.

“Three tee shirts, although one with a different collar, two pairs of jeans, and—”

You threw your finger to Sherlock’s lips to command him to stop. Furrowing your brow, you glanced between them before freeing his mouth.

“Why would I need anything?” you asked.

“Well…because….” John put his hands on his hips and frowned. He glanced at Sherlock. But the detective only grimaced back.

You shrugged at both of them. 

“I’ve got everything I need. But I’m excited to get out today.”

You bounced to the kitchen and spun around, twisting the hat by one of its brims and grinning. A flash of mischief danced across your eyes.

“Let’s go on an adventure today, my Hardy Boys.”

John chuckled as you dashed into Sherlock’s bathroom for a shower. Shaking his head, Sherlock set down his violin and started toward the bedroom. But John crossed his arms and cleared his throat. 

“What’s the point?” Sherlock grumbled and turned around. “We practically share a bank account by now.”

But John raised his eyebrows and outstretched his hand.

“It was only a week. Twenty quid.”

With a sharp exhale, Sherlock stomped over to his wallet and slammed the bill in John’s open palm. The doctor pocketed his winnings with a shameless grin.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock went to retrieve your clothes from the bedroom. You always forgot to grab some before rushing into the shower. But he rather enjoyed dropping them off on the bathroom counter for you.

Today, however, you changed the routine by turning off the shower when he entered. You stepped out and beamed at him before plucking a towel from the rack. Hair dripping wet, you leaned in to peck him on the cheek.

“Thank you, my brilliant detective.”

“Your—”

“Yes, it’s practically healed.”

You nodded to the door.

“Now out with you while I get dressed. You and John better be ready for some fun.”

You gave him a quick kiss before shoving him out the door.

Once on Baker Street, you adjusted your scarf around your neck and shook out your face. John put his hands in his pockets and breathed in the fresh air. The weight of your injuries finally lifted from the shoulders of your flatmates.

“What do you have planned for today?” John asked.

With a smirk, you wrapped your arm around his shoulder and leaned your head on his. You wiggled your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“Well, for starters, I was thinking we could compete in a pickpocketing challenge.”

John tossed your arm off from him.

“What? No! We’re not stealing from people!”

You snickered and waved his wallet at him. 

“But it’s such fun, John! I’m sure Sherlock would agree.”

Spinning around to face the detective, your eyes went wide at the wad of cash he handed back to you. You tossed John his wallet and plucked your money from Sherlock’s hand. He smirked as you wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and drew him into a kiss.

“Sexy,” you breathed onto his lips.

You pocketed your cash and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. Biting your lip, you grinned at Sherlock and raised your eyebrows.

“Let’s play a game?”

John buried his face in his hand. 

“Oh God. We’re getting arrested today, aren’t we?”

Still latched to Sherlock’s coat, you rolled your eyes at him. 

“No, John. This is perfectly legal fun. I want to play a game of deductions. But,” you returned your gaze to Sherlock, “instead of listening to what this one has to say about the world, I want to hear what the world has to say about him.”

Sherlock leaned his head back and groaned. “You’ll be disappointed.”

You freed him from your grasp and patted his chest. With fire in your eyes, you waved a few £50 notes in front of him.

“We’ll just have to give them a proper incentive then, shall we?”

At Saint James Park, you dragged Sherlock by his hand with John following close behind. Hands in his pockets, John snickered as you tapped the shoulder of a man staring at his phone.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you familiar with the detective Sherlock Holmes?”

The man spun around, lowering his mobile to his side. He pushed up his glasses and furrowed his brow at Sherlock’s blank expression.

“Oh right. Aren’t you the bloke who jumped off the building?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. You held up a £50 note and tugged at the ends.

“I’ll give you _this_ if you can impress me with a deduction about him. Interested in being a consulting detective today?”

The man chuckled and nodded to you.

“Is this for real?”

“As real as his death was fake.” Your eyes lit up.

“Alright.” The man grinned and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “Well….he’s….”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Tall…”

“And do you congratulate yourself every morning for deducing that you’re still alive?” Sherlock barked. “Continuing to insult the world with your _obvious_ intellect?”

“Hey! I wasn’t finished!”

You smacked Sherlock’s chest with the back of your hand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes. He drew in a pained breath and looked upward. 

The man straightened his posture and cleared his throat. He glanced between you and John. When you gave him a nod, he opened his mouth again. But snapped his jaw shut when Sherlock groaned.

“Please, do. Dazzle me with your brilliant intellect. And while you’re at it, put your mobile away. There’s no use in calling her back. She’s already moved on.”

“Hey, asshole! This is not about you, for once.” You glared at him. “Shut up!”

The man wrinkled his nose. “He’s rude, arrogant, and incorrect! She couldn’t possibly have—”

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered in frustration. “Yes, with your brother.”

You buried your face in your hand and outstretched the note.

“Please, enjoy the rest of your day.”

Glaring at Sherlock, the man plucked the money from your hand and stomped off. But you and Sherlock raised your eyebrows as he checked his phone exactly three times before pocketing it and shaking his head.

You crossed your arms and leaned back into Sherlock’s chest.

“You know,” you groaned, “you didn’t have to ruin the man’s confidence.”

“I did him a kindness.”

“By gracing him with your superior intellect?” John chimed in.

The three of you observed as the man pulled out his mobile and typed three numbers. He yanked his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes. Then shoved it in his pocket once again.

“By sparing him the embarrassment of that phone call.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “It’s his fault he didn’t listen.”

He spun you around and traced the side of your face with the back of his hand.

“Bored yet?”

“No!”

You shoved him away and pointed a finger. He smirked at the scowl upon your face.

“That was one trial. Hardly a big enough sample size for your scientific brain. We just need a better audience.”

“Oh, I’ve taken care of that.” John grinned at the both of you.

You leaned your head back and raised your eyebrows.

“Just what have you done, Doctor Watson?”

“What else?” He shrugged. “I rallied the troops.”

In just under an hour, you were waving notes through a sizable crowd of fans, conspiracy theorists, and curious bystanders alike. Sherlock gave John a sideways glance. 

“You have _this_ many people who care about your blog?”

He readjusted the scarf that you relinquished to him earlier. 

“No,” John covered his mouth and shook his head. “You have this many people who are interested in _you_.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as you laughed alongside a fan.

“Why do you two care so much about what people think?”

“Look at her.” John nodded to you as you pored over the pages of a fan's theory. It was practically a thesis, compiling various ways the detective could have faked his death.

You snapped your gaze to Sherlock and called out to him.

“There’s no way that you used the stress ball. John’s smart. He could have just as easily checked your neck.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. Scoffing, you redirected your attention to his devoted fan and her impeccably well thought out theories. Grinning ear to ear, you handed her a £20 note and laughed.

John smirked. “It doesn’t matter why.”

“No, it doesn’t.” 

The corner of Sherlock’s lip upturned in the slightest evidence of delight. But it was quickly erased when you started walking over with his fan in tow.

“She wants a picture with you.” You raised your eyebrows.

Eyelids fluttering in agony, Sherlock rolled his eyes. When he finally returned his gaze to you, he opened his mouth to protest. But you leaned in and whispered into his ear.

Furrowing his brow, John leaned over just in time to see Sherlock’s pupils blow wide open. His cheeks flushed with scarlet and you laughed as you withdrew yourself from him. Sherlock cleared his throat in a futile attempt to conceal his shudder.

Fortunately for him, you already turned around and gestured for his fan to come over. 

“Stand right here,” you pointed to your spot, “and give me your camera.”

Wiggling, she handed her mobile to you. You took a few steps back and readied the camera. But you released an exasperated sigh and rolled your eyes.

“You can at least…” You shook your head and pointed to the giddy fan. “Just shove yourself next to him. He’ll live.”

She bit her lip and glanced at Sherlock. He jerked his head back, eyes wide as if wondering if she would bite him at any moment.

Which, in fairness to his deduction skills, she had thought about. Just under _different_ circumstances.

“It’s okay,” she tittered.

You shrugged and snapped the photo...and another. 

Right when he blinked.

Snorting a laugh, you handed over the evidence and wished her good luck. She gave Sherlock a sheepish smile and scampered off.

You dashed behind John and draped your arms over his chest.

“You know they’re only here because of you.” You tilted your head to the side. “These are your fans as much as they are his.”

John chuckled. “I transcribe.”

“No.” You pecked him on the cheek and bounced to face him. “You’re a storyteller.”

John glanced down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Er, thanks.”

“I’m learning how to tell the truth.” You punched him in the shoulder. “Thanks to you.”

Biting your lip, you raised your eyebrows at Sherlock.

“They love you, you know?”

He narrowed his eyes at you before drawing in a breath.

“And I lo—”

But he was interrupted once again. However this time, it wasn’t by you.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to have a public gathering of this size, Sherlock. Starting your own religion?”

You spun around and threw your arms in the air.

“GREG!” 

With a smirk, the detective inspector raised his coffee to salute you. 

“The real detective is here!” You dashed over and tackled him in a hug. Greg raised his coffee to avoid spilling its contents down your back. 

“ _Real_ detective?” Sherlock spat, wrinkling his nose at John.

But John only grimaced in reply. When you peeled yourself from Greg’s body, you spun around and snickered.

“I mean, the man has a badge and everything. You just made a website.”

“And I solve all his cases for him.”

“Well,” Greg cleared his throat, “not a—”

“Yes, all the ones committed by criminals who outwit you. Which doesn’t take much.”

“Sherlock!” You protectively put your hand on Greg’s chest and scowled at him. “Apologize!”

Sherlock gave Greg a deadpan expression. The detective inspector cleared his throat and guided your hand away from him.

“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you. “Your brownies were delicious.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked as he ignored the short-circuiting wire in his harddrive. Shaking your head, you pointed at him and whined.

“No, it’s not okay!” You yanked Greg’s coffee from his hand and took a gulp. “He’s always being a complete asshole to the people who care about him most. It’s just, just _rude_!”

Sherlock pursed his lips and glanced down. Remembering his conversation with you, he swallowed and looked back at Greg.

“I love you.”

Greg’s face contorted in confusion. He glanced between you and John. But receiving no additional information from your stunned faces, he pointed to himself.

“Me?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Who else?”

Greg looked down and furrowed his brow. But after you and John exchanged a curious glance, he looked back up and swallowed Sherlock in a hug. Patting his back, Greg nodded into his shoulder.

“I love you too, man.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief when Greg finally pulled away. He wasn’t sure if his eye could stand spasming any longer. 

Hand over his mouth, Greg cleared his throat. He took in a deep breath and you handed his coffee back to him. But he shook his head and waved his hand.

“Keep it.”

“Thanks.” You beamed at him.

Greg put his hands on his hips and grinned at you.

“I hear you're handing out cash for deductions.”

“Only if it’s accurate and impressive.”

“How many people have succeeded?”

Hands clasped behind his back, John bounced on the balls of his feet. “No one.”

“Well, I’ve got one for you.” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“Oh please.” Sherlock drew in a breath and glanced upward.

You tilted your head to the side and took another sip of coffee. “Do dazzle us, detective.”

Greg smirked. Looking at you, he pointed at Sherlock.

“This man is absolutely in lo—”

“Oh my God, GREG!” You threw out your arms, coffee spilling all over your leather jacket. 

John reached over to pluck the cup from your hand as you shook off the excess liquid.

“What a, what a,” you grumbled. “Maybe you aren’t the detective I thought you were.”

Greg raised his hands in defense. 

“Maybe not,” he laughed.

You threw your head back and groaned. 

“I need to get something to wipe this down. I think this concludes our first meeting of Sherlock’s Church of Modern Day Deductions.”

“Finally,” Sherlock breathed.

He grabbed your clean hand and yanked you away from the crowd. John walked next to you as you waved goodbye to Greg. 

He gave you a wink. Shaking your head, you glanced as Sherlock.

“They didn’t even notice that you left.”

“Because they’re not there for me.”

“That’s okay.” You smiled at John. “Because we are.”

John gave you a nod. Once you were on the sidewalk, you withdrew your hand from Sherlock’s and shook out your arms again.

“I need to—”

“Eat,” they replied in unison.

You cocked an eyebrow at them. 

“Only if you,” you nodded to Sherlock, “eat too.”

Pursing his lips, he gave you a nod. 

“Good.” You beamed at him. “Lead the way, my brilliant detective.”

With a smirk, Sherlock exchanged a glance with John.

_Yes, his title was better than Greyson’s._


	50. Your Best Friend Needs You, Sherlock Holmes

In a fit of giggles, you scampered out of the ice cream shop—barely managing to balance three cones in your two hands.

John smirked and shook his head. “What happened?”

You furrowed your brow and extended a cone of praline crunch to him.

“What do you mean?”

He accepted and waved his other hand through the air. 

“You’re so, so…”

“Happy?”

“Yeah.”

Leaning over, you pecked Sherlock on the cheek and handed him a cone with a scoop of chocolate chip on top.

“John.” You beamed at him. “It’s ice cream.”

You raised your cone of strawberry and snickered. Gesturing to Sherlock, you gave him a wink.

“Surprise flavor at the bottom for when you get bored of that one.”

He cocked an eyebrow at the already melting confection. 

You linked your arm in John’s and started traipsing down the sidewalk. In an utterly ordinary display, three of the most dangerous residents of Baker Street strode through London without a care in the world.

“You know…” You indulged in a lick of ice cream. “Jim is going to bring it full swing now that I’m better. So you boys better be ready.”

“Are you seriously going to just continue playing along with him?” John furrowed his brow.

You shrugged. “I mean, what else until this is over?”

“It’s never  _ over _ with Moriarty,” Sherlock said lowly from behind you.

You glanced back. “Seems like he’s done with you.”

He narrowed his eyes. 

“Jealous?” you asked as you turned forward. “Maybe you’ll finally tell me what happened on that rooftop.”

Sherlock released an audible sigh. But, unperturbed by his annoyance, you unlinked yourself from John and spun around. In a flash, you snapped a photo of him with your phone. He already started grumbling in protest.

With a grin, you showed the evidence to John.

“World famous detective Sherlock Holmes enjoys a solitary ice cream cone. Who can deduce the mystery flavor at the bottom?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t post that.”

“And share this treasure with the world?” You tucked your phone in your back pocket. “Never.”

You leaned in to peck him on the cheek. If you knew better, you could have sworn you felt it bundle into a smirk beneath your lips. But, when you withdrew, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at you and continued to nibble away at his scoop of chocolate chip ice cream.

“Doesn’t that hurt your teeth?” John tilted his head to the side.

_ Nibble. Nibble. _

“Maybe yours.” He raised his eyebrows.

Snickering, you linked back in John’s arm and glanced back at Sherlock.

“Where to, my beautiful detective?”

He gestured that you turn left at the street ahead. Beaming at him, you gave him a nod and continued walking with John by your side.

Exactly three thoroughly enjoyed ice cream cones later, you furrowed your brow at the upcoming building.

“The hospital?”

You looked back at Sherlock.

“Are you finally going to tell me what happened?”

Pursing his lips, he tilted his head as a silent request for you to move forward. You pouted your lip and obliged.

“Do you know?” you whispered to John.

He shook his head. “Honestly, I never asked.”

“What are we really here for, Holmes? More body parts?”

“An experiment,” he replied from behind.

You spun around and placed your hand on his chest. Cocking an eyebrow, you paused a moment to gauge his expression. But you couldn’t extract anything from his features.

“An experiment that doesn’t involve dead tissue? What are you up to these days?”

“Wouldn’t you know?” He raised his eyebrows.

Biting your lip, you turned back around and glanced at John. But he only shrugged. The three of you continued walking forward. 

As you walked along the side of the building, the gears in your head churned at the possibilities for Sherlock’s new experiment. What would he want to study at Bart’s if not the muscles, tissues, and organs of the deadly departed?

But, assuming you would know soon enough, you breathed a sigh of relief. John smirked at the sudden bounce in your step. You replied to his satisfaction with a smile.

“I’m going to figure it out someday.”

He laughed. “I’m sure you will. If you can think like Jim Moriarty. You can certainly think like Sherlo—“

Hearing a hauntingly familiar sound, Sherlock’s eyes darted to the sky. He grabbed you and John by the collars of your coats and yanked you backward.

If he was even a millisecond slower, he would have missed—

_ SPLAT. _

Ears ringing. World spinning. Hearts racing.

_ Screaming. _

People were screaming.

What did.

Real.

This was.

Was this real?

Blood painted across your face, you barely managed to raise your gaze to look at John. With rapid blinks, his eyes remained transfixed on the body—yes, that was a bloody, mangled body—in front of you and smeared across the pavement.

Man. Mid-forties. Expensive pinstripe suit.

Skull broken.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

His lifeless eyes staring right into John’s. 

Yes, this was very much real.

You rubbed your temple and rested your hand on John’s shoulder. The world spun around you.

“Jo—Are you, are you okay?”

Mouth slightly open, he looked right past you and transfixed his entire focus on Sherlock. The detective, however, was staring straight toward the sky.

Without another word, Sherlock darted inside the hospital. Heart pounding from inside your chest, you grabbed John by his shoulders. Trying to steady him, you stared into his eyes and swallowed. But he furrowed his brow and waved you on.

“Go, go ahead.” 

You shook your head and wrapped your arms around him. Holding him close, you guided him away from the horrific sight as bystanders swarmed the scene. The blood of the deadman transferred from each of your coats and to the other.

Sherlock raced up the all-too-familiar stairs and threw open the door to the rooftop. Chest heaving with a special concoction of fear, rage, and heartbreak, he raced around the cursed landscape for any additional evidence.

But there was nothing.

There was no one.

Once again, he was all alone.

Palms to his forehead, unbridled panic smeared across his face. Sherlock’s heart thumped to the rapid rhythm of his footsteps as he paced back and forth.

The victim. 

£800 suit. Damaged wedding ring. Skull split open from the fall.

No.

The landing.

No scuff marks across the rooftop or the edge. He leaped willingly. Or, at least, without physically resisting.

But if there was anyone else here, even Sherlock Holmes couldn’t find a shred of evidence to allude to their existence.

What were the chances this was simply a suicide? A copycat of sorts? A desperate man repenting for his sins by flinging himself from the infamous rooftop?

8%

No matter how much his racing heart wished it to be so. The time and manner of death were too serendipitous to credit this event to Fate.

Unless Fate was going by a new name these days.

_ James Moriarty. _

Sherlock’s heart leaped into his throat as he raced back downstairs. He dashed to the morgue and could finally breathe again when he saw you—safely—with your arms around John as he buried his face in your neck. Your nose was tucked in his hair as you murmured (what Sherlock only assumed were) the right soothing words into his ear.

If only Sherlock knew that the inhale he finally breathed would strike such an ache into his heart. He might not have gulped the air with such desperation.

Molly glanced at him and swallowed.

“They’re, they’re bringing him in now. I assume you’ll want to have a look?”

A brief respite of relief washed over Sherlock’s face when you started to raise your head. But his stomach dropped upon seeing the scathing look on your face.

His eyes went wide at the rage burning behind yours. You graced his gaze with your fury for a moment before redirecting your entire focus—and affection—to John. 

“Um,” Sherlock swallowed. “Yes.”

He started walking toward you. But you held up a finger and clenched your jaw. When Sherlock stopped moving, you squeezed John even tighter and stroked the back of his hair.

“It’s okay, he’s, he’s okay.”

“No, no, no.” The crack in John’s voice tore through you. 

“He’s very much alive. Look, he’s right there.”

You pointed at Sherlock who remained frozen in place. But John only squeezed his eyes closed even tighter.

“I-I...”

“We’re both alive and we're both here. You’re not alone, John. You’ll never be alone again. You’re my brother.”

He released a gentle sob into your shoulder. 

Closing your eyes, you swallowed and leaned your head against his.

“I’ve got you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Your eyes flickered to Sherlock. But this time, casting a remorseful gaze on him. Although he knew the regret in your eyes wasn’t for his sake. 

Without another word, he backed out of the room. You sucked in a breath and stared at the spotless floor. In a heartbeat, Molly followed after him.

“I-I know this must be difficult for you too,” she pleaded once outside the door.

“Difficult?” He wrinkled his nose. “There’s nothing difficult about it. The man jumped off the building and spared the world of his existence.”

Sherlock drew in a sharp inhale and stared at the ceiling. Biting her lip, Molly’s eyes flickered from the floor and back to his face.

“We, we don’t think that about you,” she whispered.

He snapped his gaze back to her. “I never said that.”

“No, you’re right. You didn’t.” 

They stood in silence for an agonizing moment. But you cut through the tension when you stormed outside. Grinding your teeth, you threw the door open and glared at Sherlock.

“I-I’ll just head back…” Molly darted inside.

You yanked Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shook him with the might of John’s broken heart.

“How could you have  _ EVER _ let him see you like that?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Seething with rage, you flung him from your grasp. You dragged your hand over your face as your heart started racing again.

Barely managing to make eye contact with him, you tangled your fingers into your hair and shook your head.

“How could you do that to him? How, how  _ could _ you?”

“I had to.”

“Bullshit!” You threw your arms out. “There’s always another way with you. You were just trying to show off. But at what cost, Sherlock? What cost?”

“You endanger yourself  _ repeatedly _ to impress Moriarty.” He drilled his eyes into yours with an unrelenting gaze.

“Because I  _ have to _ .”

“People are  _ dying _ and you’re just playing along with his game.”

You raised your eyebrows, mouth slightly agape.

“And what?” You shrugged. “You’re just waiting for me to say it. Just to prove you’re right even if it means disappointing you.”

Biting your lip, you looked away from him for a moment before pointing a finger.

“I am  _ not _ Jim Moriarty. I’m occupying him as long as I can until I can figure out how to stop him.”

“So was I.” He grabbed your wrist and yanked you closer.

“You think I wanted to do that?” Sherlock pointed to the door. “You think I wanted to have to lie there, helpless, and listen to him mourn me?”

Your eyes flickered to John in the window and back to Sherlock. He wrapped his hands around your face, refusing to relinquish your gaze now that he captured it once again.

“It very well  _ killed _ me. But I had to. I...” He swallowed. “I. Had. To.”

Your breath hitched as you read his face. It was practically screaming at you.

“There is a great difference between you and I, Sherlock Holmes.” You placed your hand over his. “You don’t lie to me. I-I know that.”

He released the breath he was holding in as you nodded into his hand. You kissed his palm before allowing him to withdraw from you.

“I’m sorry.” You looked through the window. “He needs you. We can figure out what the hell is going on once the body gets here. But for right now, your best friend needs you.”

Avoiding all eye contact, you blinked away the mist clouding your eyes as you stomped off; unsure of where you were even headed.

Watching you walk away, Sherlock drew in a breath as a knot tightened in his chest. But eventually, he tore his gaze away from you and followed your suggestion.

Yes, his best friend needed him.

You both did.

And it was, quite frankly, a terrifying truth.


	51. Lady Justice

At the victim’s flat, you crossed your arms as Greg interrogated the deadman’s wife. 

The sitting room was filled with fine furniture and extravagant artwork. More magazine subscriptions than you knew existed were meticulously laid out across the glass coffee table. 

You glanced back at the kitchen. It was filled with premium, barely used, appliances. But when you returned your gaze to the sitting room, you furrowed your brow at the water damage above the silken drapes.

Wrapped in a shawl and fiddling with her gilded necklace—it wasn’t real gold, you would know—the widow stared out the window. She drew in a breath and held the tightness in her chest, refusing to let go. Softly shaking her head, she continued to avoid all eye contact with the detective inspector.

Clearing his throat, Greg tossed aside the end of his jacket and put his hand in his pocket.

“And he, er, he didn’t tell you anything else about these, these money troubles?”

“No, no. I-I already told you everything. Please, just...” She turned to Greg, boring her eyes into the plush carpet. “He was worried and said that...he said that he had a way to fix it.”

She slammed her eyes shut and swallowed. Pursing her lips, she glared at an abstract painting on the wall and shook her head.

“Apparently that meant leaving me to clean up his mess. I just, I can’t. You must excuse me.”

Sucking in a breath, she strode right past Greg. You furrowed your brow as she walked past you, exchanging a curious glance with your partner for the afternoon.

“The money troubles are evident.” Greg pointed to the water damage then nodded to the knock-off painting. “Everything here is for show. Living far above their means. Perhaps his solution was to just…”

He swiped his fingers across his neck and clicked his tongue. But you wrinkled your brow and glanced into the kitchen. 

Clasping her hands and resting them on the island, the woman bit her lip and started into the vase of wilted flowers at the center. You narrowed your eyes at her and tilted your head to the side. 

“Let me have a go, detective.”

“But—”

His protests were no use as you were already walking to the kitchen.

Pursing your lips, you stood on the other side of the island. You took a deep breath and rested your hands on the counter. Twiddling your thumbs, you swallowed and furrowed your brow.

“I would be relieved too…” you whispered.

She snapped her gaze to you and her eyes went wide.

“Relieved? Do I look relieved to be in this predicament?”

You held up your hand and gently shook your head.

“My apologies. I was not referring to your financial situation. But rather the great burden that’s been lifted from your shoulders.”

She mashed her necklace between the pads of her fingers and glanced to the side.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My mistake. I must have misinterpreted.”

“You did.”

“But if I were with someone like me, I would let her know that I am also... _burdened_.”

Leaning backward to straighten your posture, you spread your arms out to grasp the edges of the island. You relaxed the muscles in your face and waited for her eyes to meet yours.

“I know the look because I’m walking the same path,” you offered.

She put her hand on her chest and drew in a sharp inhale. Blinking rapidly, the widow’s eyes flickered to Greg and back to you. You softly shook your head.

“No, not him. My husband.”

The widow furrowed her brow and glanced at your ring finger. You curled your hand inward and bit your lip.

“I can’t. For work. It’s the only time I don’t feel its weight.”

She nodded her head gravely. “I can help you, you know?”

With sorrowful eyes, you shook your head. 

“No one can help me. I work with the police and even then I’m still trapped.”

She bit her lip and glanced at Greg. Walking to the other side of the island, she took a hold of your elbow and guided you into the dining room. Not a soul was in sight.

“How far are you willing to go? To be rid of your... _burden_?”

“I’m…” You glanced at the open doorway before returning your eyes to her. “I’m not above extraordinary measures. I’ve tried to think of every solution. But it, it seems like there’s no way. No way that I could get away with it.”

“Well then,” she swallowed. “Let me tell you how I did it.”

Back at the morgue, Molly handed the toxicology report to Sherlock.

She drew in a breath. “He had high volumes of—”

“Ketamine.” He examined the report.

“He was...tripping?” John furrowed his brow and glanced at Sherlock. “What are the chances this really was suicide? Even if unintentional?”

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to reply to John’s useless question, his mobile rang. He answered immediately.

“He drugged him. Ketamine.”

“You’re wrong.”

Sherlock groaned. “I have the toxicology repo—”

“No, Sherlock. He didn’t drug him. _She_ did. The killer is a woman.”

“Because he was…” He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“An abusive asshole, yes. But Sherlock, there’s one more thing. I-I….” You swallowed. “I tried to—”

The call ended.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he redialed your number. But it went straight to voicemail. His jaw ticked before he tried calling you one more time for good measure. But, as expected, his stomach dropped when he was greeted with your answerphone.

John glanced at Sherlock’s rapidly rising chest. “Something’s wrong.”

Sherlock swallowed. His eyes went wide as he stared at him. “Brilliant deduction, John.”

Sherlock’s mobile pinged for attention: a single text from an unknown number.

_I’ll keep this easy for you, boys. She’s waiting at home for you. But in what condition?_

Without another word, John and Sherlock exchanged a glance before dashing out of the morgue.

_blurred._

You blinked hard. Once. Twice. Three?

_Shapes. Spots. Sunlight._

Chair.

You were sitting in Sherlock’s chair.

With a groan, you started to lift your hand to the dull pain in the back of your head. But you stopped when something else jerked for your arm’s attention. 

With your other hand, you reached for the IV protruding from the inside of your arm. But a hand from behind you guided your wrist away.

“Now Eve, you can’t disrupt all my hard work.”

“No, I don’t…” You slammed your eyes shut. “I don’t want to fight...fight you.”

Your captor crouched in front of you. Her raven hair shimmered in the light as the fire burned from behind her eyes. 

“And that’s good because you aren’t going to.”

“Iustitia, please. Don’t, don’t do this.”

With a smirk, she traced your jawline with the back of her hand.

“Oh Eve. I’ve waited a long time for this.”

You reached for the needle again. But she sprang to her feet, yanking your arm and twisting it behind your head. Grinding your teeth, you winced at her merciless angle.

“Your skills are dulling. I could never have blitz attacked you before. Getting cozy here with your boyfriends?”

She released your arm and it flopped over the armrest. You hissed an inhale and tried to look back at her.

“He’s done for. The operation, everything,” you pleaded.

“And no thanks to you. That was all Jim Moriarty.”

Iustitia strutted back to the front of the chair. She placed her hands on either armrest and leaned close. You closed your eyes and whimpered. But, unimpressed by your remorse, she shook her head and spat on your face.

“You are a disgrace to all of womankind.”

“I had to,” you cried out.

“No, you didn’t. You and I were in virtually the same predicament. But look at the paths we each chose.”

“Yours never ran a crime ring.”

“No, I started my own,” she growled before standing upright. She lifted your IV bag and examined the transfusion of the drugs to your system. It would be a matter of minutes.

“I tried, tried to hire you. But you, you won’t help me,” you reminded her.

“And I will tell you exactly what I told you then, Eve. You murdered women while I chose to set them free. Now, you get to pay for your crimes, you misogynistic bitch.”

The room started spinning and your body melted into the chair. Your stomach churned and you suppressed the overwhelming urge to vomit all over Iustitia as she marched back in front of you.

“No, no, no,” you whimpered as your body started to float above the chair. 

_Yes, you were certainly floating._

How would you get back to the ground?

Iustitia crossed her arms and smirked. “The wrathful are destined to fight each other over the River Styx. But you, my special friend, will fight yourself. Your mind. Can you stay above water long enough to save them?”

“Don’t.”

“Oh, that’s up to you.” She tucked your gun in your hand. 

With a hard swallow, you blinked a few times as her face distorted into.

Into.

JimSherloJoh…

Clint.

“I’ll KILL YOU,” you growled as you stumbled to upright.

No. Still floating.

You were float, float, floating.

“Oh Eve, you’re so cute when you’re angry.” He placed his hand over your weapon and lowered you back to the chair.

Clint swung behind you and rested his hands on your shoulders. He gave them a good squeeze before brushing his cheek against yours and whispering in your ear.

“You absolutely hate me don’t you?”

“I-I will, you’re, I will kill you.” 

Your arm glided through the air as you aimed your firearm at him. But he easefully redirected your wrist upward as you shot the top of the window behind you. Crows exploded from the glass and soared to the streets of London.

Clint forced you back to your seat and rested your arm back to the chair.

“Yes, yes you will, baby girl.” He traced the side of your cheek with the back of his hand.

You swung your face around to chomp down on his wretched fingers. But he, as always, was too fast for you. He clicked his tongue and shook a finger next to your face.

“Now, now. You’ll get me. But not like that.”

Clint dragged his fingers down your cheek to your jawline and, of course, to your neck. You threw your head back and quietly sobbed as your finger twitched on the trigger of your gun. He raked his hands down your chest, just barely reaching beneath the collar of your shirt before withdrawing his touch from you.

Clint threw his fingers into your hair and yanked your face next to his. Sneering, he pointed to the front door and raised his eyebrows.

“I’m going to come through that door any moment now.”

“It won’t, you won’t—”

“And when I come walking through, you’re going to shoot me.”

“No, I can, I can fight…”

He raised your gun and positioned your aim.

“No, you can’t. You never could fight me. Now be a good girl and do what you do best. Follow my orders and shoot me when I come through that door.”

Beads of sweat collecting around your face, you gripped the armrest with all your strength. Your nails dug crescent moons into the pliable leather. They glowed with ominous intent underneath your fingertips.

Heart erratically thumping from inside your ribcage, you panted before drawing in a deep breath. You bore your eyes into the front door, grinding your teeth to the beat of your years of hate, rage and fury.

“Yes, husband,” you breathed.

But when you glanced back up he wasn’t there.

Instead, you hunkered down further into your chair, into your mission, into the injustice.

Ready to murder the man who destroyed your life.

He just had to walk through that damned door.


	52. Triggered

The room. Honey. Tilted. 

You slowly rose to. Honey. 

Your feet as the room melted. Into. 

Honey.

You watched your pathetic legs trudge uphill to inch closer, closer, closer to the door. Feet failing you, you stumbled a few steps backward.

A few uphill steps backward.

Everything was uphill. Just like your very existence. 

Surviving was an uphill battle. One that you seemed to win just enough to keep playing. But never enough to stop the game entirely. God kept you alive just long enough to continue tormenting you again.

First came love.

It poured into your life like a torrential rain.

Then came marriage.

It bound you to lifetimes of suffering.

Then came.

Death.

Life was uphill. You were always walking uphill.

So much that you couldn’t even let the enigmatic broken hearted genius detective Sherlock Holmes love your miserable soul. Because if you did, if you dared let him love you, you would be bound.

You would need his love like lungs gasp for air.

And you would be prisoner to your loathsome heart once again.

Your stomach churned into a toxic mixture of confusion and regret. Unceremoniously, you lurched over and ejected your paranoia onto the floor. The white hot sludge seeped through the skewed floorboards as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

You clenched your jaw and watched your arm realign your firearm to the door. Your heart screeched from inside your chest. The scream tore through your throat and sucked the air from your windpipe.

Clint.

He would be back at any moment. 

And you had to destroy the beast once and for all.

_ Jiggle. Jiggle. _

Doorknob.

Ready.

Aim.

“Eve, it’s, it’s just me,” John called out. “Are you okay? Are you alone?”

“Jo-John! Don’t you DARE touch him. I will splatter your skull across these walls, HUSBAND!”

Words. The words didn’t feel, didn’t sound…

But before you could misinterpret the sounds leaving your throat, John collapsed through the doorway. Your heart jumped into your throat as you dashed—this was dashing right?—to his side.

“John, John!”

Your gun toppled to the floor.

“JOHN!”

Your hands slid across his face as your fingers were painted in his scarlet red blood. But he was...he was fine a moment ago. He was fine. Why was John no longer fine?

What did Clint do to him?

What did  _ you  _ do to him?

You threw your hand to your forehead and tried to find the wound. Where was. Where was it?

There was so much blood. Too much blood. John was losing far too much blood and far too fast. He was slipping through your very fingers—quite literally—with every failed, tormented second. 

Blinking rapidly, your hands canvassed his body for the injury as your heart disintegrated inside your chest. Clint always started with non-lethal wounds. But this, this was something else entirely.

You had to stop the bleeding.

You had to be a John Watson.

He groaned weakly and your lips whimpered a feebly cry. But no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much—FOCUS—you tried, you couldn’t find where the bleeding started. You couldn’t find where it started. You couldn’t find where it started in order to stop it.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

“Did he,” you panted.

It hurt. The talking hurt.

“Did he cut you? Where did he stab you? Help me.”

“It’s okay, Eve,” John croaked. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be—”

“JOHN! I will kill him. I will find him. Just don’t. Just don’t...”

Scampering. Scratching. Movement.

He was there. He was still nearby. You still had your chance to enact your revenge.

No, justice. This was justice.

Smearing John’s blood across your firearm, you watched your body direct its aim down the stairs. Elbow furiously shaking, you screeched a battle cry as you slammed on the trigger.

One. Two. Three.

Shots fired. Shots fired.

The stairs splintered into a million taunting pieces that rained upwards in an explosion of your fury. But there was no blood. No body. No deadman.

Not in the stairwell at least.

For he evaded you again. Like he always did.

Your husband would always win.

Tears erupted from your eyes without shame as you wrapped your hands around John’s shoulders. Blood. So much blood. You didn’t know the human body could contain so much blood. But John probably did. You were sure of it.

“I can’t, I can’t, I don’t know how. I’m not as smart as you, John. Please. Tell me what to do.”

“You’re okay, it’s going to be okay.” He softly shook his head.

“BUT IT’S NOT!”

John weakly raised his arm and stroked the side of your face.

“Can you...can you—”

“You’re not listening to me! Help me!”

Your tears painted his face as the color drained from him. You clenched the sleeve of his coat so tightly your nails tore through the fabric. Holding your breath, you furiously shook his shoulders, never having been so desperate to extract information from someone.

“Where is Sherlock? Where is he? I need him. He needs to be here.”

“Sherlock…” John whispered. “You, you know who he is?”

“Of course I do! WHERE IS HE!”

Where is he. Where is he. Where are you. 

Where am I?

How do I stop this bleeding? How do I save you? The only person who loves me?

Steadying you by your shoulders, John slowly removed your gun from your hand. He looked into your pupils as they nearly eclipsed your irises. The terror raced across them like howling wolves.

“Eve, can you hear me?” he asked firmly.

_ Of course I can hear you! Tell me, John. You have to tell me what to do. _

John furrowed his brow and swallowed. Glancing backward, he shouted into the stairwell.

“SHERLOCK!”

You clawed at the air to move past him.

_ Yes, Sherlock. He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do. _

But John held you in place with a firm grip after tossing your gun aside. Back pressed against the wall, Sherlock stared at the mangled stairs. 

“Does she—”

“I don’t know. But the only word she’s said so far was your name. I think, I think she knows who you are.”

Sherlock drew in a breath and slammed his eyes closed.

“She’s unarmed,” John called out. “So at least she can’t shoot you.”

“I’m not...that’s not what I’m afraid of.”

But his breath caught in his throat at the sound of your whimpers.

“Sher-Sherlock, help…”

_ Me save him. We have to save him. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t make me lose him all alone. _

Sherlock swung around the doorway. Your arm danced through the air as you reached for him. He took your hand in his and held up by your waist with the other.

Body cursed with lethargy, you leaned over and pointed at John.

“He...help. Sherlock.”

The words barely dripped from your lips. John dashed upstairs and returned with a tablet. He handed it to Sherlock.

“Benzodiazepine.”

Sherlock swallowed and popped the pill into your mouth. You yelped. But he kept his hand over your lips until you swallowed. At the very least, they could help alleviate your anxiety.

John put his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“We can only wait,” the doctor prescribed.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock nodded and sat you down in his chair. He checked your arm at the injection site right before you fumbled upright again. You started stumbling toward John. But Sherlock wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you backward.

He collapsed to the floor, taking you with him. Resting his back against the chair, you reached for John and waved your arm through the air. But, eventually giving into your broken heart, you curled into him and sobbed.

_ It’s all my fault. I let him love me and now...and now… _

You clung to the lapels of Sherlock’s coat and buried your face in his chest. He sucked in a breath and stared at the ceiling. And, for one of the few times in his life, Sherlock’s heart ached for Mycroft.

You fisted his shirt and squirmed.

_ Sherlock, your heart is screaming at me. Make it stop. It’s so loud. _

You sank down his body, eventually melting into the floor with your head resting on his thigh. After a hard swallow, he bent his available leg and rotated you on your side. 

Sherlock rested his forearm on his knee before allowing his eyes to flicker to John. They exchanged a moment of heartbreak before avoiding eye contact for the remainder of your high.

You listened to the air buzz around you.

Otherwise, 221B was completely silent; sparing the occasional giggle, sob, or hiccup from you.

Sometimes all three at once.

Time bent minutes into centuries and expanded half hours into seconds. Sherlock’s thumb, however, never left your wrist.

By minute thirty-four, you were asleep.

Sitting on the floor, John finally leaned back on his chair. One arm over his chest, he covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head.

“This assassin. You were right. She thought that...she thought  _ she’d  _ think you were…”

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s as he nodded gravely. John rested his hands in his lap and glanced to the side. Clenching his jaw, he drew in a breath. But the tension on his teeth dissipated when the corner of his lip upturned in a smirk.

“You know…” He glanced at Sherlock. “We were  _ all _ wrong.”

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock weakly smiled at you. One of the many weights on his heart was finally set free. Knowing that, even in your drug induced state, you knew  _ exactly _ who he was. Perhaps some of your shapeshifting magic finally rubbed off on him. 

He was no longer your trigger.

Two-thirds of the way into minute sixty-seven, your heart rate started to even out. Sherlock released an audible exhale and collapsed his head back into the seat of the chair. You grumbled into his leg and slowly lifted your head. 

The prickling through his toes was a welcomed sensation.

Your eyelids fluttered open to take in the hazy sight of John sitting across from you.

“Jo..John,” you breathed. Squinting, you voice cracked. 

“I didn’t...I didn’t…” You slowly turned to Sherlock. “What?”

John shook his head. “No, you released an entire clip into the bloody stairs. But we’re both...fine.”

You collapsed your head to the floor and groaned in appreciation. Sherlock finally readjusted as you rested your hands on your stomach and blankly stared at the ceiling.

“Did I,” you swallowed, “did I try though?”

Biting your lip, you closed your eyes before forcing them to Sherlock’s. He rested his hand on the side of your face, his own expression a mixture of sorrow and relief.

“No,” he whispered.

A tear slipped through your eye and fell to the rug. After a swallow, you sucked in a breath.

“Oh shit. Did I…” You wrinkled your nose.

“Took care of it,” John reassured. They weren’t going to sit next to your vomit any longer than they had to.

With a breathy laugh, you placed your hand on Sherlock’s leg just above his knee.

“It was my fault. I let her get me from behind. I should have, I should have…”

But you sucked in a breath when he shook his head at you. You gave him a nod and straightened your neck. Closing your eyes, you focused on the feeling of your breath entering and escaping your body.

“I love you both. With my whole broken heart.”

“And we love you,” John replied.

Your chest contracted in a chuckle. “You’ll regret it someday. But for now, I can live with that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and closed his eyes. 

Realizing, finally, that your constant rejection of his love had nothing to do with him.

And, rather, everything to do with you.

But for now, he could live with that.


	53. Hostage Situation at 221B

DAY ZERO

Sitting in Sherlock’s chair, you rocked back and forth with your knees to your chest. You tapped the barrel of your gun on your shin and stared down the front door. The only spirit keeping you company was the gentle glow of the moonlight.

The tarp over the broken window rustled as an audacious breeze whispered through the cool night air. Clenching your fingers around the trigger, you spun around and aimed at the ethereal intruder. But, with wide eyes and a racing heart, you slowly realigned your focus to the front door.

Jaw tightening, your breath hitched as the stairs creaked to announce John’s presence. In pyjamas, he furrowed his brow with concern. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“Let me,” he whispered.

Biting your lip, you furiously shook your head.

“No, John. I-I can’t let anything happen to you.”

“Nothing happened nor is going to happen to me. I’m fine. You need to sleep.”

You leaped from the chair with the grace of a panther. Firmly planting your feet in a combative stance, you bore your eyes into him.

“I’ve got this,” you reassured.

“I know you do. But I, I can help.”

You shook your head. “You can help me tomorrow.”

“How so?”

“I need to strengthen my combat skills. You’re a soldier. Attack me.”

“Eve...you don’t have to—”

“Yes, John. I do. The reason you were in danger was because I let her blitz me from behind. That never would have happened before.”

He swallowed and glanced at the floor. With a heavy heart, you sucked in a breath and readjusted your footing.

“I need you to show me no mercy. Grab me from behind while I’m drinking coffee. Pounce on me when I’m getting into a cab. I don’t care. Just keep me on my toes.”

“I’m not putting you through this.”

You clenched your teeth. “Fine, then I’ll find someone who will. Because I’m not putting you at risk ever again from being too weak.”

With a huff, you threw yourself back into Sherlock’s chair. Your eyes remained transfixed on the door as you aimed your firearm. 

John glanced at the door before furrowing his brow at you.

“What are you—”

“He’s coming for me.” You gritted your teeth.

“Moriarty?”

Your eyes flickered to John. After a swallow, you returned your focus to your target.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Moriarty.”

John pursed his lips then drew in a slow inhale. “You know that he’s...he’s dead, right?”

“Just, just…” You waved your gun at the stairs. “Just go back to bed, John. I’m fine.”

Tired of staring at the ceiling and, frankly, listening to this conversation, Sherlock got out of bed and entered the sitting room. John opened his mouth to speak, but when the detective strode over to you, he swallowed and followed your orders.

You narrowed your eyes at Sherlock.

“You can’t tell me to—”

But you snapped your jaw shut when he twirled his gun around his finger and raised his eyebrows. He pointed the barrel at the couch.

You furrowed your brow and shook your head. 

“No, I’ve go—”

But Sherlock tilted his head to the side and gave you a look.

You sucked in a breath and nodded. He replaced your post. But instead of making your way to the couch as suggested, you leaned against the fireplace; leaving John’s chair as your second line of defense between you and the front door.

Gun still in hand, you rested your forearms on your knees and sighed. 

“I’m not crazy,” you swallowed.

Sherlock cleared his throat and readjusted in his chair.

“Did you know that cigarette ash contains up to seventy-five percent the mass metals in the original cigarette?”

“What the—” You scrunched your face and tilted your head to the side. “Holmes, I don’t care.”

“Ashes are a source of contaminants and require proper disposal. But most people don’t bother.” He furrowed his brow, eye line and gun aimed at the front door.

With a groan, you rolled your eyes and leaned back against the fireplace. You tapped your knee with your gun and glanced at him.

“He finds me. He _always_ finds me. And I will not take any more risks.”

“The cadmium concentration in ash is higher than both smoke and tobacco.”

You raised your eyebrows at him and waited. After a swallow, Sherlock’s eyes finally flickered to you.

You sucked in a breath. “I know what you’re doing.” 

But succumbing to your bodily needs, you yawned and readjusted. Turning to face him, you fought your fluttering eyelids as they begged for respite. Sherlock’s jaw ticked and he redirected his gaze forward.

“Higher amounts of potassium and chlorine in tobacco leaves produce the lowest amounts of reflectance in the resulting ash.”

“If you wanted to dirty talk me to sleep, there are much better ways to do that.”

You sniffled and closed your eyes until—NO—you were awake. Yes, you were definitely awake. Sherlock’s eyes darted back to the door right as your head jerked upward.

“The reflectance of ash varies with the frequency of puffs for Japanese Bright tobacco. But in Matsukawa-ha and Burley tobaccos, the whiteness of the ash produced is nearly constant. Barring the exception of continuous smoking.”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed. Your eyes finally descended to darkness.

“The ash of Matsukawa-ha and Burley cigarettes is far more viscous than…”

He glanced at you and took a deep breath. You were undeniably, even for a compulsive liar, asleep.

Sherlock set down his weapon on the armrest. Resting his fingers along the side of his face, he fulfilled his promise to you and kept watch that night. However, the focus of his concern was certainly _not_ the front door.

DAY THREE

“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” you barked into the phone. “Freeze them. All of them.”

Pacing across the room, you bit your lip and rubbed the front of your neck.

“YES! This is Eve Riley. R-I-L-E-Y.”

You sucked in a breath. Closing your eyes, you shook your head and pinched the bridge of your nose. 

“I already answered all of your security questions. Pass-password? Oh for fuck’s sake.”

John raised a basket of fish and chips to gain your attention. You wrinkled your nose and swatted your hand through the air.

“No, of course that’s not it!” You dragged your hand down your face. “Sulfur hydrogen erbium love oxygen carbon potassium.”

Sitting in his chair with his fingertips pressed to his lips, Sherlock smirked. You growled into the receiver.

“Okay, now I’m requesting _again_ that you freeze all of my accounts. If a single cent _moves_ , you will contact me immediately. Are we clear?”

Upon confirmation, you hung up.

“I withdrew plenty of cash. So we should be set for a little bit,” you announced to the room.

John gestured, once again, to the food on the desk. But to his displeasure, you shook your head. 

“I don’t have time to eat. I have some equipment for contact plates coming later today.”

He sucked in a breath and raised his eyebrows at you. “Does this mean you reconsidered the contractors?”

“John.” You glared at him. “I can’t have anyone I don’t know coming in here. I’m installing them myself.”

“I almost got stabbed in the shin walking up the stairs this morning.”

“Well, you know to be more careful now, don’t you?”

You tossed your mobile on the desk next to his laptop. Dragging your hands over your face, you looked at the ceiling and groaned.

“I’m going to sleep. Just thirty minutes. Don’t answer the door unarmed.”

You stomped to the bedroom, slamming the door shut. When John heard your body flop to the mattress, he threw himself to his chair.

“She’s gone mad,” he whispered.

Sitting across from him, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. John looked over his shoulder and lowered his gaze to the detective.

“You’re the only one who can do anything about this.”

“And just what am I supposed to do?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t bloody know!” John threw his hands in the air before rubbing his knees. “Use your telepathic communication to tell her that he is _dead_ and not coming back. She’s doing all of this to run from a ghost.”

“This isn’t a matter of the conscious mind.”

“Then what is it? What are we supposed to do?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Observe.”

“So...nothing. You just want to sit here while she completely spirals in self destruction because that’s exactly what you would do?”

Holding his breath, Sherlock gave John a firm look. He tilted his head to the side and clenched his jaw.

“I am observing because this is a pattern that we will certainly see again. I have to understand it if she’s going to break it.”

After a hard swallow, John leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

“And just what have you deduced so far?”

“Everything you do exacerbates the situation.”

John threw his arms in the air and sprang to his feet. 

“Fantastic!”

He rolled his eyes. “Figure this out soon because I don’t want to find out the hard way that she booby trapped the rest of the flat.”

He stomped to his room. 

Sherlock leaped to his feet. He took deliberate, audible steps to the bedroom and cautiously opened the door. 

Hands over your stomach, you stopped staring at the ceiling to look at him.

“I’m not crazy,” you breathed.

He raised his eyebrows as his gaze flickered to the spot next to you in bed. Biting your lip, you nodded and he slid next to you. 

Sherlock outstretched his open palm. You sucked in a breath and slowly raised your gaze to his face.

“Just thirty minutes. You promise?”

He gave you a nod. 

After a swallow, you placed your gun in his hand and rested your head on his chest. He wrapped his free arm around your shoulders. 

It took a few breaths, but your body eventually melted into his. He leaned his head back, noting the change in your breathing rhythm when you actually fell asleep.

This was your eighth hour of sleep since, well, since your mind was held hostage. Not that he was counting. 

Oh, to hell with it. Of course he was counting.

But, as promised, Sherlock squeezed your shoulder exactly thirty minutes after you fell asleep. Your mind protested, unwilling to rejoin the waking world. 

With a groan, you propped yourself up on one hand and rubbed your eyes. Vision still fuzzy, your hand fumbled across the bed, the detective, and eventually to his wrist. 

Squinting at Sherlock’s watch, you fell back to the bed and sighed. He raised his eyebrows when you curled back into him and placed your hand on his chest. Your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured into him.

“Wake me when they get here?”

With a smirk, Sherlock placed in hand on your back and hummed in confirmation. Your cheek soaked in the vibration from his chest right before falling back to sleep.

_Progress._

DAY FIVE

Tangled in a mess of wires and circuitry, you sprang to your feet and threw your palms to your forehead.

“FUCK!”

At his computer, John whipped his head around and raised his eyebrows. Grinding your teeth, you scowled at him.

“Okay, John. You fucking win. I can’t figure this out. Happy now?”

He breathed a sigh of great relief. You shook your head and threw the pliers to the floorboards.

“I never set these up myself. But I don’t know...maybe it’s not such a good idea if I rig the place to burn if we aren’t here and someone walks in. You have so many surprise visitors. I don’t want to torch Mycroft.”

John cleared his throat. “Or Mrs. Hudson.”

You scoffed and waved your hand. “She could escape a burning building faster than all of us.”

After a sharp inhale, you stomped away from the front door. Tripping on a nest of wiring, you flew forward just in time for Sherlock to catch your fall. 

He placed you upright as you waited for the room to stop tilting to the side. 

Yes, it was definitely tilted. You’d need to fix that too. 

Your footing stumbled as you put your palm to your forehead.

“Thanks,” you breathed.

“Should you maybe…” John started. 

But when Sherlock shot him a glare, he stopped talking.

“I just, I just need a quick nap. I’m fine, John. I’m fine.”

You staggered into the kitchen. But before you could enter the bedroom, Sherlock beat you to the doorway. He placed his palm to the door and closed it before you could enter.

“Just what do you think you’re—”

He latched his palms to your face and kissed you. You raised your eyebrows at his abruptness. But, enjoying this interruption for once, you closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around him.

Your eyelids fluttered as Sherlock pulled away. He spun around for an instant. 

Regaining your senses, you rested your hand on the table to steady yourself. When you opened your mouth to speak, he faced you again and held up a sandwich on a plate.

You furrowed your brow at the offering. But upon feeling the rumble of your stomach, you accepted Mrs. Hudson’s latest creation. You traced the side of Sherlock’s face and softly smiled.

“I know what you’re doing, Holmes.”

“Eating a sandwich.” He picked up one half and took a bite.

With a smirk, you followed suit. Plate in one hand, you grabbed his wrist and guided him to the couch. When you finished your half of the meal, John’s eyes went wide from behind his computer screen. 

So far, it was the most you ate in a single sitting.

You swung your feet onto the couch and rested your head in Sherlock’s lap. Hands clasped and resting on your stomach, you sighed and stared at the ceiling.

“He hasn’t called.”

“Thankfully,” John cleared his throat. Sherlock glared at him and John snapped his gaze back to the computer screen.

You furrowed your brow and shook your head. “Something is wrong. I just, I don’t know…”

You tilted your head back to look at Sherlock.

“What did I do wrong?”

He grimaced and put his hand on your shoulder. 

“I know you have theories, Holmes.” You tugged at his sleeve. “What do you deduce?”

“I-I don’t know.”

You and John both shot him looks of confusion. But before you could interrogate your...something...detective, your eyes fluttered closed. It took three breaths before your mind finally found the safety of sleep.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. But he only smirked as your chest rose and fell with the rhythm that it rarely felt these past few days.

_Progress._


	54. Talk Murder to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut. There is smut ahead.

Your chest heaved as sweat glistened along your collarbone. Cheeks flushed and body exhausted, you leaned back as a gasp escaped your lips.

“Maybe we should stop,” he said.

“I have a fast recovery time. Don’t worry.”

“I just, I don’t feel good about this.”

You downed a glass of water and gently moaned as the cool elixir calmed the back of your throat. He swallowed and glanced at the floor. The only light accompanying you at this hour of the night was the flickering of some incandescent illumination.

“I don’t like keeping secrets,” he pleaded.

“Are you suddenly growing a conscience on me, Greg?”

His eyes flickered away from you. You slammed the glass on top of the stool and wiped your forehead with the back of your hand.

“Nevermind,” you breathed. 

Your fingers tucked underneath the bottom of your tank top as you tossed it to the side. His cheeks flushed as he glanced away. Although not without a lingering look that did not go unnoticed by you.

“What does he think we’re  _ doing _ ?” Greg slowly raised his gaze back to your...eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes is an emotional genius. I’m sure he’s figured it out by now.”

You readjusted your footing and raised your fists.

“Now, again.”

Greg drew in a deep breath and gave you a nod.

Admittedly, his heart started racing when you reached out to meet with him at...three in the morning. But Greg breathed a sigh of relief when you clarified that you were interested in access to the Scotland Yard training centre. 

Greg lunged forward to offer you an easy punch. You started to roll your eyes as you swung backward to evade him. But your footing failed you, inciting the detective inspector’s fist to smack the side of your face.

“FUCK!” you screamed.

“That’s it.” He cut his hands across the air. 

But you pounced on him in retaliation. Greg swiftly commanded your body into submission as he spun your back to his chest.

“I will beat you!” you shrieked.

He flung you across the ring and you bounced off the ropes like Anderson’s limp...well, you know the rest.

“I’m taking you home.” He raised his eyebrows. 

Clenching your jaw, you stared him down. But, releasing your balled fists, you threw your top back on and followed Greg to his squad car.

Back at 221B Baker Street, you stomped up the stairs; grumbling as the wood splintered underneath your boots. You darted straight to the bathroom and shampooed your hair with more aggressive scalp scrubbing than was ever necessary.

Naked and dripping wet, you escaped the freezing water and slunk to the bedroom. Flopping next to Sherlock, you stared at the ceiling as he tilted his head to the side. He furrowed his brow at the bruising on your cheekbone.

“We’re having sex,” you lied. “Nothing else.”

He raised his eyebrows and commenced staring at the same spot on the ceiling as you.

Sherlock spent the past 48 hours trying to decipher how to bring you back from the dead—like you did for him all those months ago.

Yet, his heart ached a peculiar beat when he realized that while you were fluent in cases, clues, and chaos, you didn’t necessarily enjoy it. You were always running from case to case with reckless abandon—praying the game would not swallow you alive.

How was he supposed to bring you back if the only force that  _ could _ get you rest was death itself?

But, bodily needs finally catching up with him after a week of matching your tiresome sleep schedule, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered closed.

Only after confirming that you were, indeed, asleep.

Just before his mind drifted to the dreamy waters of slumber, Sherlock decided to take your lie, not as dishonesty, but a suggestion. He certainly didn’t mind the benefits of experimenting with new ways to help you come back to yourself.

Whoever you were, after all.

Sherlock woke up the next morning with a tingling in his arm. Without opening his eyes, he slowly rotated to bury his nose in your hair. He appreciated the feeling of your back to his chest more and more with each passing day.

Eyes unwilling to accept the morning, you squeezed them shut even harder. You kissed the inside of his forearm before leaning back into him.

While one of his arms was losing sensation thanks to the weight of your brilliant mind, the other was very much alive and quite keen on remembering that fact.

Hand resting on your bare waist for stability, Sherlock gently adorned your already prickling skin in curious kisses. He dutifully traveled from just behind your ear and along your shoulder. 

When his touch incited a soft shudder from your body, he bit down and sucked. With both of your eyes still closed, a soft moan escaped your lips as you tilted your hips back into him. His breath hitched at the contact.

You rotated your face as a silent request for him to redirect his focus. Even in his hazy, blind stupor, Sherlock’s lips found yours with ease. A gentle whimper from deep within your throat transferred from your lips to his.

You could feel him smirk. But, uninterested in punishing his arrogance, you reached down to palm his covered hardness. You were more excited to reap the benefits of the detective’s cocky demeanor this morning.

His breath instantly caught in his throat. All focus was lost for a moment as his lips separated from yours. You chuckled in satisfaction as he buried his face in your hair—his ability to verbally communicate mysteriously failed him barring a few grunts and gasps.

You deftly released the drawstring of his pyjamas before plunging your hand beneath the soft fabric. Your dexterity only faltered for a moment as Sherlock cupped your breast. He traced calculated circles over your nipple with his thumb. Eventually tuning the ridged flesh to his command between the pads of his fingers. 

Squeezing your thighs together, you threw your head back as you continued to caress his morning erection. He bit down on the base of your neck and sucked in generous praise. 

But eager to match your skill, his fingers danced along your side. His hand melted from your breast to your waist and continued to trail down your body. From behind, he reached between your legs and snickered at the gasp that cried out from you as your eyes finally flew open.

You regained as much of your aroused focus as you could with a swallow. Then commenced your own dedicated task of pleasuring him. But Sherlock took no mercy upon you and allowed his fingers to inch across your folds at a tauntingly painful pace. 

You bit your lip and whimpered as he curiously explored your wetness—interested in closing in on a particular location. But he fisted the sheet with his other hand as you focused your attention at the tip of his length. 

You paid your respects to the ridge that ignited shock waves through his body. And he, in turn, rewarded your generosity by nestling his index finger along the side of your own pleasure center—stroking with the utmost precision.

It didn’t take long for you to gasp for release. You freed Sherlock from your grasp and tugged at his, at this point, offensive clothing. He willingly obliged in joining you in your nakedness. It was admittedly one of his favorite looks on you.

You turned your head to face him, gently smiling before bringing him into another kiss. Without pulling away, he aligned himself at your entrance. You sucked in a breath as he teased your wetness with that of his own. 

You rested your hand on his thigh and he brought his lips a breath away from yours. Your eyes lingered on the swollen look of your kiss on him as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. 

“I have to know,” you breathed. “How would you do it?”

Your gaze finally kissed his. He smirked before leaning over to claim the tender flesh of your neck as his own. Your back graced his bare chest again as you accepted his offering.

He finally retracted his arm beneath you, steadying your body by gripping your hip. With a single thrust, Sherlock drove himself into you. You gasped a moan of equal relief and desire for more. To the latter, he kindly picked up his pace as he started to pant into your neck. 

You fisted the sheets to help grind yourself into him. Breath heaving, you moaned sharply as he dug his nails into your hips. He continued to radiate pleasure through your body—grunting in satisfaction at how he expertly anticipated your bodily response to his every move.

But, eventually tiring of this angle, you swung your leg across him to position yourself on top—demanding a new configuration to truly appreciate your beautiful detective. 

Or, more accurately, for him to appreciate you.

Sherlock rested his head on the pillow and drank in the vision of your backside. Hoping to inspire your pace, he placed his hands on your hips and started to rock you back and forth.

But you latched your palm to his wrist and turned your head around. With a mischievous grin, you raised your eyebrows. 

“Don’t get greedy on me, Holmes.”

You faced forward again and tangled your fingers in your hair. You thrust your hips with a careful, deliberate pace. He groaned in approval, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before your gentle moans melted into words.

“Do you want to know what I would do?” you gasped.

He hummed in curiosity and placed his hands on your thighs to support your pace. 

“I would use…”

“Poison,” you finished in unison.

You froze on top of him. Glancing back, you gave him a wink as he rolled his eyes.

“I just said that to mess with you. Too trite for your taste? Women always poison their lovers.”

With the utmost precision, you spun around on top of him. He rolled his head back and sucked in a breath. The sensation was simply otherworldly.

You placed your hands on either side of his face and lowered yourself to him for a kiss. Nuzzling his nose with yours, you smiled before returning upright and cupping your breasts.

Your heart started racing as you rocked your hips with a determined pace. Fortunately for you, you weren’t trying to hold back the pleasured cries from your throat. It would have been just as useless a quest as silencing Sherlock when he was determined to show off.

Which, in a way, he very much was right now.

You placed your hands on his abdomen for more leverage as your hips snapped back and forth faster and faster. Your wetness shamelessly painted him as your bodily satisfaction tore through you.

“Then again,” you panted. “Isn’t that how you’d do it with John? Is he really your husband?”

Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and leaned his head back.

“Please don’t,” he barely groaned. 

You snickered and continued to spike your heart rate as more gasping moans burst from your throat. As you leaned forward, Sherlock bore his eyes into you. You pleaded to him with pupils blown wide open. With a smirk, he nodded and you raised your knee to free him. 

Sherlock wasted no time reuniting his body with yours. But this time, from behind you. You gasped in delight as he quickly outmatched your pace—accompanying it with his own grunts of approval.

Positioning yourself upright on your knees, you leaned back into him. He wrapped one arm just below your breasts to steady you. You turned back to kiss him as his free hand trailed down your stomach and between your legs. Sherlock’s fingers ignited every nerve ending of pleasure that your body had to offer.

The man did his research—both in and out of the field. You, for one, would never be so cruel as to rob him of his studies. 

Entranced in his kiss, you bucked your hips back into him. But you yanked your lips away as your desire peaked and sent you

over

over

over

The falls and to him once again. 

You would never tire of learning new ways to trust Sherlock Holmes. But this had to be one of your favorites to date.

Body still recalibrating, you threw your palms to the mattress. He gasped in praise as you pulsated around him, still rocking back and forth for additional stimulation. Determined to keep you suspended in the throes of ecstasy for as long as he could, Sherlock extended the duration of your climax as he continued to thrust into you. 

The act inspired a smaller, but equally appreciated, standing ovation to his efforts. As your orgasm melted into the next, his fingernails dug into your hips. He sucked in a breath and held it. Slamming his eyes closed, Sherlock released himself as a shameless grunt hissed through his clenched teeth.

Perhaps this could be your new hobby. It seemed far more beneficial than your baking.

When his body has nothing else to give you, Sherlock buckled over and kissed your sweat-stained neck. He threaded his fingers through yours and you hummed in approval, turning your head to exchange a kiss. 

“Headshot,” you murmured onto his lips before kissing him again. “It would have to be a single headshot.”

He hung his head and chuckled before removing himself from you.

Of course. You were a romantic.


	55. It was Just a Mental Exercise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end, friends! We've got one last trip on this wild ride. Thanks for reading this far with me!

Taking the deepest breath you had in a week, you tied the sash of Sherlock’s dressing gown around your waist. Your eyes flickered to his shameless smirk. Shaking your head, you threw open the bedroom door and rubbed the back of your neck.

Heart rate finally slowing down, you started the kettle and tossed coffee beans in the grinder. Your jaw clenched as the machine obeyed your command and eviscerated them into a coarse pulp. When the water was ready, your eyes lazily traced the downpour as it soaked through the grounds inside the French press. 

From behind, Sherlock placed his hands on your hips and kissed your cheek. Your breath caught in your throat and you slammed the kettle down. He furrowed his brow. But you started stirring the mixture just as John’s voice sheepishly called out into the sitting room.

“Is everyone, er, is everyone dressed?”

“Yes, John,” you replied. “Coffee?”

“Coff—what?”

John slowly peered around the corner. He released the breath he was holding in when he saw you and Sherlock in the kitchen—fully covered and not tangled in each other.

Hands on his hips, he furrowed his brow at you.

“You and Lestra—“

Your hand flew over your cheek. 

“We’re having sex. Fucking all over Scotland Yard.”

You spun around and withdrew two mugs from the cupboard. Grimacing, John sat down in his chair and opened the paper. He sucked in a breath when a mug of black coffee came into his peripheral. You raised your eyebrows as he tentatively accepted your offering.

One hand on the kitchen table, Sherlock was already sipping the mug you prepared for him. You leaned onto the table and narrowed your eyes at John as he flipped through the paper. 

In silence, Sherlock watched you as you watched John. But the detective’s jaw relaxed when the slightest smirk barely ghosted across your lips.

“I see why you picked poison. You could do it so easily.”

He chuckled. “I already have.”

You stole his mug and took a sip. Peering over the rim, you cocked an eyebrow.

“Tetramine. I’d use tetramine.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Rat poison?” 

“Common, easy, and efficient.”

He shook his head. “Pentobarbital.”

“Not all of us have access to lab grade poisons.” You rolled your eyes.

John finally slammed the paper to his knees and turned around.

“Are you two planning to poison me _literally_ right behind my back?”

You shrugged. “At least he euthanized you. You should be flattered.”

You shoved the mug back in Sherlock’s hand and strutted to the bathroom.

Shaking his head, John dragged his hand down his face. He sucked in a breath and glared at Sherlock.

“As much as I don’t _enjoy_ listening to your methods all morning long, they seem to be...working.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and took a sip. “Obviously.”

John rolled his eyes and faced forward. He threw the paper back to view and shook his head.

“That’s the first time she’s joked since, well, since…”

But when he glanced back, he was only talking to Sherlock’s steaming cup of coffee.

Taking your second shower of the past six hours, you scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. But no matter how much you tried, you skin itched and prickled. Your body felt like a foreign land and you were ready to leap out of it.

You clawed at your neck and leaned your head back. When Sherlock stepped behind you, your entire body tensed. He furrowed his brow as the curls on his forehead started to cling to his face. He reached out to rest his hand on your waist. But you spun around and placed the shampoo bottle in it instead.

Your eyes slowly met his.

“I have to,” you swallowed. “I have to get new clothes and dye my hair today. Cut it too.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and set down the bottle. He rested his hands on your shoulders, using every ounce of mental strength to ignore how you flinched under his touch.

“He’s dead.”

You slammed your eyes shut and shook your head.

“You of all people should know that death, when convenient, is just an illusion.”

His hands trailed up your neck and to the sides of your face. He tried to communicate with you through his gaze. But your typical signal appeared to be only one-way. Sherlock’s fingers tensed around you—watching, once again, as you started to fade before his very eyes.

“Moriarty gave you—“

You smacked his hands away. 

“Since when am I supposed to trust the word of a childish psychopath? Everything is games and magic tricks with you geniuses.”

“Not this one.”

“We should consider moving. When he gets here, he’ll kill us all.”

You shook your head and stepped out of the shower. Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a breath. He listened to the rustling of the towel as you dried your hair. But he peered out to examine you upon the sound of silence.

Gripping the side of the counter, you stared at yourself in the mirror as your heart started to race and throat began to close. You clenched your jaw as your eyes transfixed on the bruising along your neck, shoulders, and collarbone. 

_He would never forgive you for this._

You snapped your gaze to Sherlock and swallowed. But you withdrew your eyes from his. Choosing instead to throw on his dressing gown and exit the bathroom.

Once you were fully dressed, you threw yourself into Sherlock’s chair. John lowered to paper to see your beaming face. He furrowed his brow and drew in a breath.

“Do I...do I want to know?”

You glanced down and chuckled. 

“I’m going to run a few errands today.”

John swallowed and gave you a look. “You’re not going anywhere by yourself.”

“Of course not.” You rolled your eyes.

Just as Sherlock emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, you smacked your knees and bounced to your feet. Without preamble, you pounced on him and wrapped your arms around his neck. You pulled him into a kiss and he furrowed his brow at your affection.

But, against his mental sensibilities, Sherlock’s heart still leaped into his throat. He took a deep breath when you finally separated your lips from his. When you pulled away, you stroked the sides of his face with your thumbs.

“I’ve been acting a little crazy, haven’t I?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he and John replied in unison.

Biting your lip, you glanced down before meeting his gaze again.

“You’ll keep me safe?” 

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Obviously.”

You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. But before pulling away you whispered into his ear.

“I owe you a great debt, Sherlock Holmes.” 

You cradled the side of his face in your palm. With a gentle smile, you opened your line of communication with him.

“And I am so in love with you.”

He smirked—knowing that you were, for once, telling the truth.

The next morning, John woke up to the piercing cacophony of machinery whirring and hammers pounding. He dashed downstairs and swung the door open to see a handful of workers dutifully repairing the stairs.

“Oh thank God.” He looked upward in praise.

“Sorry er’bout the noise, sir.” The foreman gave him a salute.

John waved his hand through the air and smiled.

“No, it’s just, it’s just about bloody time we got these fixed.”

With a smirk, he closed the door and returned to the sitting room. Barring the screeching of construction, the flat was completely silent. This was the latest hour that you and Sherlock slept in over a week.

John started the kettle and threw himself into his chair. He tapped the sides of his armrest and furrowed his brow.

Something was...was missing?

He chuckled to himself and sprang back to his feet. After puttering to the front door, he opened it and raised his eyebrows at the foreman.

“The paper?”

“Oh right!” He gestured to another worker who trotted down the broken stairs. John took a deep breath, chest finally lightening after the trials of your trauma-induced delirium. 

But he furrowed his brow when the man returned with two newspapers in hand. John swallowed and accepted them. He scrunched his face as he evaluated the dates.

_How could he have Thursday’s paper if today was...was Wednesday?_

He shook the papers in front of the foreman.

“How long have these been here?”

The man shrugged. “Since we got here.”

“Alright, thank you.”

John gulped and slowly closed the door. He threw open the paper and shook it out, expecting a red-sealed envelope to cascade to the floor. But when the paper unfurled before him without any additional contents, he scanned the articles instead.

Seeing nothing inconspicuous of the futuristic vision, he turned on his laptop. John’s eyes instantly blew wide open. He dashed to the front door and pointed a finger at the foreman. 

“What day is it?” he panted.

The man furrowed his brow. “Thursday.”

John slammed the door. He ran to the kitchen, turned off the kettle, and started hammering his fist on Sherlock’s door...no longer needing caffeine to spike his adrenaline.

“Sherlock! You cock! That’s TWO Wednesdays now. And what? All to show off to your girlfriend?”

The door flew open. John clenched his jaw as he glared at the detective. Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and gave John a deadpan expression.

“It _is_ Wednesday. And I didn’t drug you...this time.”

John waved a finger in his face.

“I’m not falling for this. You two were literally planning to poison me yesterday...no, two days ago.”

He raised himself on his toes to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder. But, still unable to see inside, he glanced beneath his arm. Taking in the sight of the empty bed, John looked at Sherlock.

“Where is she?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured to the bathroom door. “Toilet.”

“Sherlock, it _is_ Thursday. Just fess up.”

John stomped to his laptop. He opened the screen and set the paper on the keyboard before shoving the evidence in the detective’s hands.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and swallowed. 

John was, well, right.

Sherlock’s pupils blew wide open as he thrust the laptop back to John’s grasp. He drew in a sharp inhale and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Eve,” John interjected. “You proved your point. You could poison both of us.”

But Sherlock clenched his jaw and tilted his head to the side. The only sound in the flat was the hammering of construction.

He placed his hand on the handle as his fingertips grazed the surface of the door. Sherlock drew in a breath and glanced upward.

“I’m opening the door.”

The pause was agonizingly long. But without protest from you, he followed through on his word. Only to be met with an empty room.

Sherlock spun around, face paling as he stared at John with wide eyes.

If today was Thursday, what the hell happened on Wednesday?

And where, _where_ , where were you?

John was right. There was something missing from 221B Baker Street.


	56. Dangerous Disadvantage

John grabbed his mobile and called you. But it went straight to voicemail. Part of him was expecting your phone to ring from somewhere across the flat. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or not that it didn’t.

He sucked in a breath before leaving a message.

“The contractors are here. Thanks, thanks for contacting them. We were just wondering where you were. And, um, what happened yesterday. It’s a joke right? Please tell me…”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Please tell me this is a joke just to prove a point. Call us back.”

As John left his message, Sherlock searched the bedroom. His stomach twisted in knots upon confirming that all of your clothes and the inconspicuous go-bag in the corner were missing. 

He breathed a sharp inhale and removed the farthest left-hand column of his sock index. Sherlock closed his eyes and tentatively hooked his finger under the false bottom. Like the go-bag, you never mentioned either of them and he, frankly, never asked.

But Sherlock’s heart plummeted into his already churning stomach when his eyes fell upon the empty cavity. Your fake IDs, passports, and notebook were gone.

He exited the bedroom, softly shaking his head as John opened his mouth to speak. In retaliation, John darted to the front door and stared down the foreman. At this point, the contractor wasn’t sure what to make of this excessive attention. But he accepted it nonetheless.

“The woman,” John gulped. “The woman who hired you. How did she contact you and when did you last hear from her?”

The foreman furrowed his brow. “Via email. About...two days ago? Rush job.”

John held his breath as the man shook his head.

“But it...it wasn’t a woman who hired us. The name at least, it wasn’t a woman’s.”

“Jim or James Moriarty?” John tilted his head to the side.

“Ah, I...I don’t think so. Lemme check.” 

He pulled out his phone. “All communication was from a Captain John Watson.”

John dragged his hand over his face. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that’s why you borrowed his laptop on Tuesday. 

“And the payment,” his voice cracked.

The foreman tucked his mobile away. 

“All cash. Extra on top to...” He held up air quotes for the next words. “Answer peculiar questions.”

John rushed back to the sitting room and put his hands on his hips. He tilted his head to the side, watching Sherlock open a cupboard in the kitchen.

“No signs of a struggle,” John concluded. “This had to be Moriarty. She went with him to protect us or, or…”

But he furrowed his brow as Sherlock removed a canister and brush from the cabinet. The detective delicately sprinkled the fine powder on the kitchen table. Upon closer examination, he scrunched his face and pounded his fists to the clean surface. The powder quivered in his heartbreak.

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock slammed his eyes shut and drew in a deep breath. He slowly directed his gaze at John.

“This wasn’t Moriarty.”

Sherlock sharply gestured to the floorboards. Furrowing his brow, John’s mouth hung slightly open upon seeing that your blood was no longer ingrained in the wood.

Sherlock groaned and pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. He threw his hands back to his sides and sucked in a breath.

“She’s gone. Not a fingerprint, hair in a drain, or spot of blood.”

“So she...she did this?”

“Yes, of course she did!” 

Sherlock threw his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. His jaw ticked before he looked back at John.

“But why bother?” John furrowed his brow. “A fingerprint or DNA is useless to us.”

“It’s not about utility, John. Don’t you get it?” 

Sherlock threw his arm out. When John only shook his head, the detective rolled his eyes and spun around in a flourish.

“It’s about how she sees... _this_.” He gestured to the flat. “She removed the evidence, John. All the evidence that she was ever here.”

He dragged his hand down his face. “Her living here, being with us...it’s, she considers it a crime scene.”

John covered his mouth and shook his head. But against the detective’s expectations, he started chuckling. 

_John started chuckling._

Sherlock furrowed his brow and scrunched his face in an equal mixture of displeasure and confusion.

“What are you—”

“I know, I know I shouldn’t...” 

John buckled over and gripped his knees in a fit of self-induced hilarity. He threw himself back upright and beamed at Sherlock.

“I know she did this because she thinks she’s protecting us from her dead psychopathic husband. But when have we ever followed appropriate social protocols?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. With a smirk, John gestured to the spot on the table where he tried to dust for your fingerprints. 

“Don’t you see?” 

Right as Sherlock started to roll his eyes, John shook him by the shoulders.

“Sherlock! It’s a crime scene. And what do we do best?”

Sherlock scoffed and threw his head back. “The only reason we’ve ever—”

But he snapped his jaw shut at the expression on John’s face. Sherlock pursed his lips. He furrowed his brow at the light behind his friend’s eyes and gave him a single nod. 

John patted him on the shoulder with a smirk.

“The game, Sherlock Holmes, is on.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Greg from across his desk. The detective inspector threw his hands in the air and leaned back in his chair.

“I don’t know _what_ she told you. But I swear, she only wanted me to help train her.”

“You?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Training her in combat skills?”

Greg rolled his head. “I thought the same thing at first. But she wasn’t as, er, agile as I expected her to be.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And just what were you expect—”

“Yeah.” John scratched his head. “She’s been...she was, she was running on fumes.”

“What did she say to you during your last _session._ ” Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Greg furrowed his brow. His eyes flickered to John. But when the doctor gave him a nod, he drew in a deep breath and replied.

“She was determined to beat me. Ran herself ragged. But when I got her in the face, I brought her back _to you_.” He raised his eyebrows.

“And have you heard from her since? Or anything that might be from her?” John asked.

“What? No. What’s going on?”

Sherlock spun around and marched out of the office, adjusting his scarf as he gritted his teeth. John swallowed and looked at Greg with apologetic eyes.

“She’s, she’s miss...gone. She’s gone.”

Greg sprang to his feet and bore his eyes into John.

“What is wrong with you two?! Handling this by yourselves. What were their demands?”

“Demands?” 

John tilted his head to the side. But he closed his eyes and drew in a breath.

“Lestrade, she’s not...she’s not being held hostage. She left.”

“Left? You?” 

He furrowed his brow and pointed at Sherlock. The consulting detective snatched a file from a passing officer, scrutinizing the painfully simple case. 

“Left...him?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

John swallowed. “She’s running from a ghost. Now it’s our turn to catch one.”

Greg rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“If you need anything…”

“Just let us know if you hear from her. Or anything that sounds like her.” 

John looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock who was now furiously pointing to the evidence photos and growling at the officer. 

“She’s clever, cryptic,” John swallowed before looking back at Greg. “Just be on the lookout. Trust your instincts.”

Greg gave him a sorrowful nod and John left to drag Sherlock away from the, now sobbing, officer. The killer was a disgruntled employee, for God’s sake. It barely took a single glance to figure that one out.

After fifteen minutes of scarfing down her lunch, Molly returned to the lab. She instantly rolled her eyes upon seeing Sherlock rifling through her cabinets and cupboards.

Arms crossed, John grimaced at her.

“Sherlock, I don’t have anything to give you,” she whined. “I’m already miss—”

He spun around and shook out his hands.

“What did she take?”

“What did…” 

Molly furrowed her brow. But it only took a split second for her eyes to go wide.

“She’s the one who...” She glanced down and shook her head. “I thought I was going mad.”

John swallowed. “There was no evidence of a break-in?”

“No, just fewer supplies. I placed an order last week. But I thought…” She glanced at Sherlock. “What’s wrong?”

“What did she take?” he repeated.

Molly cleared her throat. “A few scalpels, scissors, syringes, body bags, and the laceration kit I set aside for you. From before...”

Her eyes flickered to John.

“Any additional theft in the hospital?” Sherlock asked.

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his lips and started pacing. He closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. 

You stole medical supplies from a woman who does post-mortems. All while leaving the rest of the hospital untouched.

His eyes flew open and he pointed at Molly.

“What else was out of order?”

“Noth—” She furrowed her brow. “No, there was one thing. A body. The tag was on the left foot. I always put it on—

“The right. Show me.”

Molly opened the body cavity and Sherlock flipped over the tag. His jaw ticked reading the message on the bottom.

_Stop looking. I’m already gone._

John leaned in to get a look. But Sherlock slammed the refrigerator door closed. Spinning around, he pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows.

“Nothing there. Apparently Molly just made a mistake.”

Mouth slightly open, Molly blinked a few times. But when Sherlock tilted his head to the side, she swallowed and nodded.

“Yes, I’ve been working a lot of late nights recently. Must have been—”

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock cut her off. “If anything else out of the ordinary arises, you’ll…”

“Yes.” She bore her eyes into him.

Sherlock spun John around to face the door. He started to usher him outside. 

“Sherlo...what are you—”

“We know that she has some medical equipment. Not her favorite doctor. But she’s capable of some level of care. Don’t fret.”

He shoved John out of the morgue. But not before looking at Molly.

She gave him a solemn nod, heart breaking at the sadness in his eyes.

“Search through your emails. They’re too dull for me.” Sherlock spun his hand through the air with a flourish.

John rolled his eyes.

“And what exactly are you going to do in the meantime?”

“Talk to Mrs. Hudson, of course.”

“Sherlock.” John gave him a stern look.

But the detective only rolled his eyes before making his way up to their former landlady’s flat.

When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a breath.

“Where is she?” His eyes flew open.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re—”

“You’re the only person who would understand, who would know...where is she?”

Mrs. Hudson drew in a deep breath. “Then you also know that I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know where she is.”

“Why? Why did she...” He bit his lip.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“She didn’t have a Sherlock Holmes to ensure his death. Just give her time. She’ll sort this out.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. “And so will you.”

Sherlock swallowed and sulked back to 221B. He took a deep breath before swinging the door open.

“No additional information from Mrs. Hudson. Although she did win £100 on a scratch card.”

John ended the call on his mobile and set it down on the counter. He buried his face in his hands and shook his head.

“We’re running out of leads. Three hours and we’ve got nothing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sherlock threw himself into his chair and crossed his legs. He pulled out his mobile and sucked in a breath before dialing. 

When the attendant answered, he put the phone on speaker and rested it on the armrest. Sherlock strummed his fingers together and stared forward as John sat down across from him.

“Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes. I’m calling to enquire about my accounts.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Holmes. Let me get the manager for you.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow as his eyes flickered to John. After a moment, the bank manager's voice rang through his phone.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. But all of your accounts were closed yesterday at 13:02.”

“By Eve Riley?”

“Um, no, sir. By, by you.”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. The manager continued.

“You listed her as deceased and cashed out against our advisement. If this was an error, we have a protocol to confirm both your identities. Given the... _nature_ of our clients’ work, as you know, we must—”

Sherlock ended the call. John was already on the phone again, knee bouncing in anticipation. Sherlock clenched his jaw and avoided eye contact with him. But when John ended the call with a sigh, he met his gaze once again.

“Answerphone finally full?”

“No.” John swallowed and stared at the floor.

“She won’t answer.”

“She might not.” John raised his eyebrows. “But she’s listening. Otherwise, she would have disconnected the line. Why won’t you try leaving her a message?”

“And say what? That my love alone will keep her safe? That I won’t let the harshness of the world erode her heart any longer?”

Sherlock adjusted in his seat, propping his elbow on the armest and resting his chin on his knuckles. With a hard swallow, he stared at the bookcase where you fell asleep only a few nights ago.

“If she wanted to be here, she would be. Have you considered the possibility that she simply...tired of us?”

He raised his eyebrows at John.

“Sherlock…”

“She was a season, John. And that season has fallen away. The sooner you can untangle your emotional attachment, the less you’ll have to endure the pain of her loss.”

He gave him a nod. “And the less I will have to witness your grief.”

“Are you bloody serious right now?”

Sherlock leaped to his feet. He put one hand in his pocket and snatched his mobile with the other.

“You’re a fool if you ever believed I was the type of man to chase a woman. Especially one who doesn’t want to be found by me.”

“You utter cock!”

John grabbed him by the front of his shirt. He shook the detective as if he could force the feelings out of him. Although he knew it was a moot point.

“She was my friend, too!” John pleaded.

He flung Sherlock from his grasp and took a step backward. Shaking his head, John dragged his hand down his face. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the floor.

John drew in a sharp inhale and waved his hand through the air.

“I’ll keep looking. Because at least I can admit that I love her.” He stomped to his room.

Sherlock released the breath he was holding in. He would rather John believe that he betrayed him than you. Sherlock knew firsthand that the latter was almost too much to bear.

Almost.

Mobile still in hand, Sherlock’s eyes darted around the flat. He entered his room and quietly closed the door. 

Thumb hovering over the call button, he drew in a pained breath. But, succumbing to need, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and dialed. The answer came after two rings.

“What have you done now, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked.

“She’s missing.”

“I hardly believe a woman like that simply goes _missing_. I refer back to my original question: what have you done?”

“I need…” He swallowed. “Do you know where she is?”

Mycroft scoffed. “Sherlock, I’m not going to waste government resources tending to your lovers' quarrel. I believe you should know by now that love is a dangerous disadvantage.”

“Mycroft…”

“How does it feel to be on the losing side this time, little brother?”

Sherlock hung up the phone. He pressed his fingertips to his temples and drew in a sharp inhale. Feeling, as always with Mycroft, like a complete idiot. 

Meanwhile, Mycroft withdrew a file hidden in his desk. He made his way down the ladder and situated himself in front of an alarmingly proficient and conveniently discrete hack, er, analyst. They were called ‘analysts’ now.

“These are all the aliases of a woman who most frequently goes by the name of Eve Riley.” He tossed the file onto her desk. “If anything should happen, should she open a bank account, check into a hotel, buy a plane ticket, or purchase a jumper online, I want to be notified _immediately._ ”

He raised his eyebrows. The analyst gave him a nod.

Mycroft straightened his posture and adjusted the lapel of his suit jacket.

“And I need not mention that this stays between us.”

“Of course,” she confirmed.


	57. The Angel of Death

Parcel in hand, you dismounted your motorbike and strutted down the street. As expected, your phone rang: for the fourth time that day. Rolling your eyes, you answered on the first ring.

“It’s time to stop, John.”

“Eve, oh my God. You answered.”

“Because this is the ninety-sixth call in two weeks.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “You weren't picking up.”

“I’m disconnecting this line today. Don’t try contacting me again.”

“What happened? We can help. We can do this together.”

You clenched your jaw. “I told you from the beginning, I don’t need heroes.”

“And I told  _ you  _ that I am no hero. What I am is your friend. We’re...we’re fam—”

Your breath hitched as you reached your intended destination.

“I’ve arranged for your financial security. As long as you receive a package on the fifteenth of the month, you can rest assured that I’m alive and well. That’s all I can offer you.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“If you continue looking for me, I will break your heart. I don’t want to. But I will if it gets you to back off.”

“Is that not what you’re doing now?”

“Oh, John,” you chuckled. “You haven’t come close to tasting the poison from my lips. You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

A taxi came to a screeching halt behind you. Barely avoiding a pedestrian on his phone, the driver slammed on the horn.

And John could hear it: both from his room  _ and _ your end of the line.

“You’re...you’re…”

He raced downstairs, never more grateful that the construction was finally complete. But when he opened the door, his heart leaped into his throat at the sight of a scarlet box and your mobile next to it.

You blinked the tears from your eyes as you tore through the streets of London. Of course, John would never know that you paid a courier to deliver those packages of cash every month for the next forty years. But you had to drop off the first one personally. 

For whatever reason.

Back at your flat, you disarmed the door and tucked your keys in your back pocket. You secured the assortment of locks and bolts. Slamming your gun on the table next to your laptop, you opened up your messages.

You ground your teeth as you read the most recent correspondence. Sucking in a sharp inhale, you shoved your chair out from underneath you and rose to your feet. 

As you walked to the bathroom, you stripped bare. You tossed aside your leather leggings, tank top, and underthings. You opened a tube of concealer and patted the makeup over your scars. Examining your work in the mirror, you exhaled sharply in approval.

You leaped into bed with your mobile (the real one). Angling your camera and concealing at least  _ some _ of your secrets, you position the lens to catch just the right view.

As your muscles tensed over the button, a voice echoed in your mind.

_ Your deception is trite.  _

You clenched your jaw. But seeing your reflection in the screen, you glanced to the side to recalibrate your expression. Even though your face was out of view, the tension in your muscles was evident.

_ But oh, love’s a fickle thing. Judging by the softening of your eyes and tension in your jaw, I’m correct. _

“SHUT UP!” 

You threw your phone across the room. Hanging your head back to the pillow, you dragged your hands down your face. With a sigh, you retrieved the device from the floor.

You tussled your hair and settled for a photo in the bathroom mirror. Rolling your eyes, you hit send. Adorning your image with an additional message:

_ Can’t wait to finally meet tonight! xx _

You selected a dress from your closet and laid it on your bed. Carefully accessorizing, you added jewelry and a favorite holster next to it. You picked out matching shoes and a bag.

In the bathroom, you took a deep breath as you withdrew a bottle from the medicine cabinet.

_ You are predictable. Poison? Really? _

“I’m going for effective, asshole. Not showing off.”

You slammed the cabinet door shut. Then tossed the inaccurately labeled prescription in your purse and rolled your eyes.

Checking the time, you cozied in bed with your phone. You had a few hours before you had to leave. With a smirk, you pulled up a favorite website and lost yourself in tales of glowing rabbits, real life giants, and circuses from far away lands.

At the restaurant, you squirmed in your seat. When your mark arrived at the table, he cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

“Irene?”

You smiled and gave him a nod.

“I hope you don’t mind the change in seating,” you breathed. “The other table was a bit drafty.”

_ Feigned weakness? Uninteresting. _

Biting your lip, you rubbed your shoulders. But you couldn’t hide when your jaw ticked. Your skills were dulling.

Fortunately, he took no notice. Instead, your date chuckled and sat down, outstretching his hand. You gently placed yours over his as he lowered his lips to your skin.

Your stomach twisted in knots as you giggled.

“Please, the formalities are unnecessary.” You nodded to the drink across the table. “I ordered your scotch. Macallan 25?”

He smirked. “I love an attentive woman.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Your date swirled the glass and sipped. You narrowed your eyes as you watched his Adam’s apple bob as the liquid descended into his throat. After enjoying a few sips, he raised his eyebrows at you.

“I admit, I didn’t expect to see you on a website like that. And another American no less.” 

You smirked and looked him up and down. “I could say the same to you.”

“So…” He leaned forward. “I need to know now, what are your limits?”

“I’m all yours.”

He choked on his scotch and shook his head. “No, please. I need you to be more specific.”

“What for? Aren’t you ready to have fun?”

“You’re new. So it all feels very exciting. I know. But honesty and communication are how this works.”

You chuckled, internally rolling your eyes. “Of course. Get the logistics out of the way and we can finally enjoy ourselves?”

He took another sip of scotch and nodded. “Precisely.”

“Well, I’m open to knifeplay.” You tossed your hair over your shoulder. “As long as they’re superficial wounds.”

He shuddered. You traced down your neckline and smiled at him.

“Asphyxiation and electrocution are acceptable. But no riding crops.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Bad experience one time. Too boring for my taste anyway.” You wrinkled your nose.

“You’re going to be quite a bit of trouble aren’t you?”

“Do you need me to continue? More explicitly?” you sang.

He swallowed. “Please, with this type of... _ fun... _ I can, I can get out of control.”

“Oh, I know you can.” Your eyes flashed danger. “Samuel.”

His pupils blew wide open. “How do you…fake, the name I gave you was fake.”

“But your taste in extracurriculars is  _ so _ telling. I know exactly who you are.”

His hand tightened around his glass and you sneered at him.

“Thought you could flee the country after so many of your friends started dropping dead?”

“Who do you work for? And what do they want?”

You clasped your hands in front of you and snickered.

“Who says I work for anyone but myself?”

He glanced you up and down. But you clenched your teeth and lowered your gaze.

“Most of Clint Riley’s network was destroyed. But I know there were a few of his special clients who escaped before the snipers came for their heads. You thought you were luring me to my death. But your arrogance was your fatal mistake.”

Your finger danced over the rim of his nearly empty glass.

“Which is most fortunate for me, Samuel. Because now, you get to come face-to-face with Riley’s former angel of death.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your chair.

“Those heart issues are finally catching up to you. They’ll think it was a particularly ruthless heart attack. No saving you even if they rushed you into the hospital this very second.”

“Why you…” He jutted his chair out and sprang to his feet. 

But you only raised your eyebrows as he clenched his chest. Gritting his teeth, his breathing grew shallow as his pupils blew wide open. You gave him a wink right as he collapsed to the floor.

On cue, you sprang to your feet and screamed.

“Oh my God! He’s, he’s having a heart attack! Is anyone here a doctor?”

As the wait staff and nearby bystanders swarmed the scene, you slipped right by and out the door. You hailed a taxi and it took you a few blocks east where you were able to reunite with your motorbike.

You pulled out your mobile to send a text.

_ Heart attack. Kensington Park Road. E _

Biting your lip, you slipped into a convenience store and dashed to the toilet. When you were done changing, you checked your messages as your phone pinged in reply.

_ I still don’t trust you. _

You rolled your eyes

_ You don’t have to trust me. Trust the work. E _

_ Taking out for vengeance doesn’t mean you can do it for justice. _

_ I won’t stop. E _

_ You’re so desperate to prove yourself. But I know who you are. I’ll never let you work for me. Do whatever you want. But don’t get in my way or tarnish the integrity of everything I’ve created. Or I’ll actually kill you next time. _

You scoffed and put your phone away. Mounting your mechanical steed, you took off into the night. Your mental shadow echoed again.

_ She’s the most manipulative woman I’ve ever met. _

“Brilliant deduction,” you grumbled as the warmth of your breath fogged your helmet.

For just like the residents of 221B, you too were haunted by ghosts.

At your flat, you opened your notebook and crossed S.M. off the list. Only one other pair of initials had a strikethrough. 

Staring at the next set of letters, you drew in a deep breath before tossing the notebook aside. It was time to lay dormant. You couldn’t attract the interest of any curious...police.

Yes, you were avoiding the police.

But you could research abundantly without fear. So you settled for sleep with the promise of mental stimulation in the morning.

_ We can go back to hating each other, but don’t you DARE leave, leave me again. _

Well, fuck.

So much for sleep.


	58. Tuesdays are for the Heartbroken

Today was the third Tuesday of the month.

It was a special day. A very special day indeed.

Heart fluttering, you secured your flat and dashed to the street. Hair messily bobbing up and down at the base of your baseball cap, you threw your hands in your pockets and focused downward.

You sucked in a breath as your mobile pinged for attention. After reading the notification, you checked the time and snickered.

What a spectacular Tuesday indeed.

Everything was lining up just perfectly for you.

But your heart leaped into your throat at the sight of a particular consulting detective and his blogger. The two were bickering right outside your intended destination. Lowering the brim of your hat, you spun around and ducked down the nearest alleyway.

_Feeling disappointed, but not entirely surprised that your, no,_ the _brilliant detective managed to compromise this location for you._

Confirming no one was on your tail, you hurried back to your flat. You had time. You just had to run a quick errand before completing the most important mission of the day.

After all, it was the third Tuesday of the month.

It was a special day.

Pearls.

You stood on the front doorstep and adjusted the pearls around your neck. Whoever deemed these bulbous, suffocating apparatuses of ocean sourced death as a display of beauty really ought to—

“Eve!”

The door flew open and you shoved your hands into your navy trouser pockets.

“Mrs. Coleman!”

“Aw, my dear.” She waved her hand through the air. “We’ve known each other for how many years now? Alice, _please_.”

“Alice.” You gave her a nod. 

She gestured for you to come inside. “Do come in! Coffee? Still taking it with two sugars?”

“Coffee would be lovely. Yes, thank you.”

“Ian is in the living room. You make yourself at home and I’ll be right back with that coffee. Or ‘cuppa’ they call it here?”

“I think that’s for tea.” You shrugged.

“Oh! Of course. We’re still getting adjusted if you can’t tell.”

You gave her a nod and sauntered to the sitting room. 

“Mr. Coleman.” You bowed your head before sitting in the armchair across from him.

He folded up his paper and tossed it to the coffee table.

“Eve Riley. The dead woman speaks.”

Ian ran his hand from his forehead and through his receding hairline. He crossed one ankle over his knee and gripped the back of the couch.

Alice returned with your coffee in a flash. She must have already had it prepared right when you arrived. You accepted it with a smile as she set another mug in front of her husband before taking her rightful seat next to him.

“Charming cardigan, Eve.” 

She pointed to your domestic attire. You smiled at her after a sip of coffee. With a grunt, Ian uncrossed his legs. He leaned forward, clasping his hands and placing his elbows on his knees.

“I’ll cut right to it. We need your services again.”

“Ian!” Alice smacked his shoulder with the back of your hand. “Let the girl get settled first.”

“It’s fine.” You placed your mug on a pre-arranged coaster. “I’m more than happy to help.”

He leaned back and nodded. “Good.”

“How,” you cleared your throat, “how have things been?”

“Oh, dear.” Alice shook her head. “You of all people should know. When we heard you died, we were simply devastated. Our... _private life_ hasn’t been the same since.”

She shook Ian by his shoulders with sorrowful eyes. You put your hand over your chest and pleaded to her.

“I’m truly sorry that I had to disappear for some time. Clint insisted. It was for my own safety after all.”

“We trust that you had your reasons,” she assured.

“Yes, that your husband did.”

Your eyes flickered to the side before meeting Ian’s piercing gaze again. He sucked in a breath and scowled at you.

“But then he went missing and his associates started popping up dead. We figured a change of scenery would suit our retirement better.”

“I assure you that Clint is just fine. We’re just...working out some of our own issues with a loving couple’s game of cat and mouse. Had a competitor try to drive a wedge between us. It’ll be resolved soon.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. 

“The reason we agreed to work with you two from the beginning was due to your respect for the institution of marriage. Normally, I’d be inclined to shove you out the front door without your husband by your side. But with my stamina not being what it used to be and everything that happened with dear ol’ Sammy, we can’t be too careful.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry, but Sammy?”

“Oh don’t be coy, dear. We know.” Alice flicked her wrist at you. She leaned in and put the back of her hand next to her mouth. “If you ask me, he had it coming.”

You rubbed your knees and shook your head. 

“I-I don’t—”

Ian rolled his eyes. “We know he was a client of Clint’s. There’s no need to protect his privacy.”

“To think he resorted himself to luring a girl off the _internet_ ,” Alice scoffed. “He really should have used the professionals.”

Ian rested his hand on her knee. “It was a heart attack. As if a college student looking for a twisted sugar daddy could properly murder one of us.”

“As you said,” she raised her eyebrows at him, “can’t be too careful these days.”

“You…” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re all in contact with each other?”

“Yes,” Ian replied. “When Clint’s business disintegrated, a few of us managed to retrieve each other’s information. Took some digging. Some braved staying in the States while a handful of us went across seas. For the most part, all of his associates ended up dead. All except for the ones who already were.”

He raised his eyebrows at you.

“How many, how many know that I’m alive?” you asked.

Alice shook her finger. “Oh don’t you think for a second we would dare share our dirty little secret. We know with Clint’s resources dried up, it will take that much more for you to complete your fine work. So we want you all to ourselves.”

“Good.” You stared them both down. “Because you were the only clients of his who ever got to actually meet me.”

“Such a shame,” Alice pouted. “You think he would have loved to have shown off an adorable thing like you.”

“Oh, he did. Just, um, in different circles.”

“You young couples always have different ways of showing affection.” She beamed at you.

You chuckled and tucked your hair behind your ear. Ian cleared his throat and tilted his head to the side.

“You remember our preferences?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.”

“It might take me some time.”

He gave you a nod. “Knowing you’re the one on the job, the wait will be worth it this time.”

You rose to your feet and straightened your pearls. 

_Your damn pearls._

“I’ll be in contact when there’s an update.”

You outstretched your hand. But Ian furrowed his brow.

“And the payment?”

You softly shook your head. “Consider it a gift. As reparation for our absence and the inconvenience to you.”

Ian clasped his hands around yours and shook it with fervor.

“Clint taught you good business sense.”

“That he did, Mr. Coleman. That he did.”

Outside the Coleman residence, you walked a few blocks west to your motorbike. 

“SHIT!” You threw your hands in your hair. This was certainly more complicated than expected. Sherlock would know what to...

No.

After stamping your foot, you drew in a deep breath and checked the time. 

17:37

You had to get moving.

You raced back towards your flat. Seeing the streets were free of geniuses and doctors alike, you stopped right in front of your intended destination.

A minute to closing, you raced inside and slammed your palms to the counter. You tossed your key to the attendant. 

“Box 1895,” you gasped.

The attendant rolled his eyes and went to retrieve the one letter you received every month. He handed you your key and the red envelope. Before he could fully outstretch his arm, you snatched them both and were out the door.

You rushed inside your flat, scrambling to reconfigure your homemade and, frankly, illegal security system. You didn’t even bother changing your clothes or removing your gun before you threw your stomach to the bed. 

Biting your lip, you ripped open the envelope. You sucked in a breath and pressed the paper to your chest before reading.

Sherlock, as expected, solved the case of the recent jewelry thefts. Your anonymous tip to the police bumped up the priority of the case. 

John was researching cellular triangulation. And, apparently, hopelessly failing at it. But you commended his efforts with a smirk, also knowing that even if he became the most proficient hacker in the world, he still couldn’t find you.

Sherlock started eating semi-regularly again. Apparently he was most willing to eat the same type of sandwich that you shared with him...that one time. He started composing too. While you only heard him play a few times, maybe you could get a recording of that someday.

No. You couldn’t risk it.

_She’s clever enough. Just too emotionally involved._

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered. “And you're an emotional genius.”

As always, Mrs. Hudson ended the letter assuring you that there was no safer place for you to be than at 221B Baker Street. You tore off the useless plea, setting the parchment aflame before tossing it in the bin. 

You’d take care of the rest of the letter in the morning. You could afford that leniency. Just this once.

You clutched your heart stricken salvation and curled up in bed.

Today was the third Tuesday of the month.

It was a special day. A very special day indeed.

The only day of the month you got a full night of uninterrupted sleep.

_And then some._


	59. You Americans and Your Guns

Sitting in front of his laptop, John’s phone pinged with a new text message. He furrowed his brow. But upon seeing the sender, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Sherlock,” he called out. “Double homicide of an older couple in a hotel room.”

Sherlock adjusted the stage of his microscope.

“Wallet and purse missing?”

“Er…” 

John texted Greg back. When he received the response, he rolled his eyes. 

“Yes.”

“Cause of death?”

“Gunshot wounds.”

“Bored couple hires a prostitute to shake things up in the bedroom. She tries to rob them, underestimates their strength due to their age and resorts to shooting them instead.”

He glared at John. 

“Honestly, you and Lestrade need to stop conspiring to send me on pointless cases. I’m busy.”

He returned his focus to the microscope. Sucking in a breath, John sprang to his feet. He stood next to Sherlock and put his hands on his hips.

“You’re busy?”

“Have you lost the ability to comprehend the English language? Of course I’m—”

But he clenched his jaw and removed his gaze from the eyepiece to glare at John. John withdrew his finger from under the microscope and tilted his head to the side.

“I may not be a scientist, but even I can tell that there’s nothing there.”

With a huff, Sherlock stomped to the couch. He curled up and faced away from his intrusive friend; grumbling how he would have to wipe down his lens for smudges.

“Sherlock…” John sighed. “Let’s just go for the hell of it. We haven’t got any other leads—”

“Thanks to you,” he muttered.

John rolled his eyes and threw back his head. 

“I wasn’t going to let you get arrested for terrorizing the employees of the Royal Mail.”

Sherlock curled into himself even tighter and John sucked in a breath.

“If you wanted that letter so much, why didn’t you just steal it from Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock looked back just to bark at him.

“Because it wasn’t about the letter, John! And since you caused a scene outside, she knew we were there.”

Wrinkling his nose, the detective turned back to face the couch.

“I’m sorry, but  _ I _ was the one to cause a scene?” John threw his hands in the air. “You don’t even know if she saw us.”

“Of course she did. She’s not an idiot. And she knows that I’m not one either. She was on the lookout all day. Even if I went back in a disguise, she would have known.”

Shaking his head, John grabbed his coat. He threw it on with a huff and glared at Sherlock.

“Lestrade asked for our help.”

“My help.”

John rolled his eyes. 

“Well, apparently only one of us is being useful today.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. But he was silenced by the sound of the door slamming shut. 

When he looked up, the flat was completely empty. And, for once, it wasn’t because John’s presence became hopelessly boring. 

Once on Baker Street, John put his hands in his pockets. He took a deep breath and tapped his foot as various pedestrians, cars, and taxis drove by. 

He checked his watch and waited exactly six minutes before hailing a cab. When the vehicle came to a stop, John hopped in the backseat and puffed out his cheeks. He clasped his hands in his lap and twiddled his thumbs.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“Er…” 

John paused as his eyes flickered to the door of 221B. After a swallow, he gave the driver the address of the hotel. The driver nodded and John sucked in a breath. 

But just as the taxi was about to take off, Sherlock smacked his hand to the window and threw open the door. He slid into his seat next to John and bore his eyes forward. 

“Thought you were busy?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Shut up.”

Sherlock upturned his collar and sank in his seat. John smirked and shook his head. He gave the driver a nod in the rearview mirror and the taxi made its way to the crime scene: now that all its rightful passengers were in tow.

At the hotel room, the investigation was just wrapping up. The coroner was outside the room with two body bags and stretchers to take the unidentified victims to the morgue.

“Well, looks like you were right about this one too, Sherlock. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as Greg smacked him on the back. He narrowed his eyes at John. 

The doctor crouched next to the body of the male victim. He raised the sheet for closer examination before the body would be removed.

“You said it was a prostitute?” John glanced at Sherlock. 

The consulting detective only rolled his eyes. He shoved his hands in his pockets and spun around before strutting to the door. But John cleared his throat and tossed the sheet aside to fully reveal the victim.

“Since when do prostitutes execute with clean headshots?”

Sherlock froze. He spun around, pupils blowing wide open at the single hole in the older man’s forehead. He bore his eyes into Greg.

“You said gunshot wounds.”

Greg raised his eyebrow and gestured to the body.

“Is that not—”

But Sherlock only growled at him in reply. He lowered himself next to the second victim and yanked back the tarp. His eyes widened at the matching bullet hole in her head.

Sherlock bolted upright and murmured under his breath. His eyes darted around the room as he processed his surroundings.

“Sorry, what?” John furrowed his brow.

“Room service. Fork on the right-hand side of the plate. Melted ice taking up a fourth of the glass. And just look at those trousers.” He wrinkled his nose at the male victim. “They’re Americans.”

His breath hitched at the sight of blood on one of the pillows. He furrowed his brow and slowly approached the bed. Sherlock’s hand ghosted over the back of his head as he muttered to himself.

He ran the cords along the bedposts through his fingers and clenched his jaw at the belt on the floor. Sherlock spun around and pointed at John.

“We need to compile a list of all the Americans who moved to London in the past ten months. The wealthiest ones. Her services were expensive.”

“Services?” Greg furrowed his brow.

John put his hands on his hips and swallowed. “This was…”

“C’mon, John.” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “Even you know this was her work. Look at those restraints. They’re perfectly intact. Someone willingly released her.”

He nodded to the female victim. “Who is the only person who could talk her way out of a situation like this? Certainly not your average...”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Prostitute.”

“And this...couple?” John gestured to the victims.

“Had a very particular way of reviving their dead sex life.”

“I’m sorry,” Greg interrupted. “But she...your  _ friend _ ...she’s a sex worker?”

He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. John scrunched his face and sucked in a breath. 

“Did you...did you just call my sister a tart?”

“You’re the ones who, who…” Greg gestured to the scene before them. 

_ Wasn’t it an obvious conclusion?  _ Even to anyone who wasn’t a detective of any sort. 

But before Greg had to endure the wrath of John Watson, he was saved by his mobile ringing. He cleared his throat and answered.

Anderson popped his head out of the bathroom doorway.

“Do you get a friend’s discount?”

Without skipping a beat, Sherlock grabbed a chair. He closed the bathroom door and propped the chair under the handle. John smirked as it started jiggling.

“Hey now!” Anderson called out. “It was a legitimate question!”

Sherlock lowered his gaze and bore his eyes into John.

“Moriarty took care of the business network. But now she’s targeting the client list. Starting  _ here _ and then she’ll finish the rest back in America. The death of the American businessman on Kensington Park Road...”

“Wasn’t just a heart attack.”

Sherlock smirked and shook his head.

“She exacerbated his existing health issues to make the cause of death seem natural.”

“That seems...unlike her.” John glanced to the side. He cocked an eyebrow at the male victim. “But  _ this  _ does.”

“Yes, John. She would opt for efficiency before subtly. But given the fact that her two best friends solve crimes for fun…”

He raised his eyebrows.

John pursed his lips and nodded. “She’s not hiding from the police. She’s hiding from us.”

“Except something changed this time.”

“Such as?”

Sherlock pointed to the small bloodstain on the pillow. “They attacked her first.”

John glanced around the room. “But she’s fine. She’s otherwise uninjured. There’s no other blood...or…”

John sucked in a breath and stared at Sherlock.

“How do we find her now?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. But John’s question was answered, instead, by the detective inspector.

“We got a 999 call. And I think you two better come with.” Greg put his mobile away. “It’s a hostage situation.”

John’s eyes widened. He looked at Sherlock with fear written across his face. 

“Who would want to—”

Sherlock’s jaw ticked. 

“She’s not being held hostage, John.” He slowly narrowed his eyes at Greg. “She’s the one with the gun.”

Greg nodded in confirmation as the bathroom door started shaking again.

“You guys better not leave me in here!” 

But Sherlock and John were already walking down the hallway. Greg rolled his eyes and tapped the coroner on the shoulder. 

“Could you…” He nodded to the quivering bathroom door.

She smirked. “When I’m done.”

Greg patted her on the shoulder before racing after Sherlock and John.

His one burning question of the day was still unanswered.


	60. The Jamison Brothers

SIX HOURS EARLIER

You wrinkled your nose and raced down the street, body trying to shield the paper bag in your hand. Your jacket and hat did not provide adequate protection against the rain. But you were only a block away.

At your intended destination, you buzzed for access. You cleared your throat before inciting your best London accent.

“Delivery from Fareast Restaurant.”

The door unlatched.

You trotted up the stairs and knocked on the front door. When the man answered, he further disheveled his hair by scratching the back of his head. You smiled and held up the bag.

“Already paid for with your card on file.”

“Thank you.”

He snatched the bag from your hands. Just as you spun around, he called out to you.

“Wait.”

With a swallow, you slowly turned back around.

“Is there anything else that I can do for you, sir?”

“Last time, they ignored my instructions. Let me have a look before you go running back.”

“Of course.”

He removed the box and shoved the bag back into your hands. You sucked in a breath and pursed your lips as he scrutinized the package of noodles and Szechuan chicken.

Clicking his tongue, he looked back and gave you a nod.

“Everything to your satisfaction?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Alright, alright.” He rolled his eyes.

He reached in the pocket of his dressing gown and shoved some cash in your hands. You plastered a smile on your face and started walking away. But when the door closed, you tiptoed back to the wall and held your breath.

Three minutes later, a thud echoed from inside the flat. Followed shortly after by another. With a smirk, you tucked your bag and cash under your arm and swung the door open.

The two men, who looked like mirror images of one another, writhed on the floor. Their skin flushed with color as hives spread across their necks and jawlines.

“Oh my god!” you yelped as you threw yourself to your knees. “Do you have EpiPens?”

One of the brothers pointed to a kitchen drawer as he grabbed his throat and gasped for air. You rushed over and sifted through cutlery, takeaway menus, and eventually found two devices that would be their alleged salvation.

You rushed back to their sides, pressing the pens to each of their thighs. A flash of relief spread across their faces as the needles plunged into their flesh. You tossed the medicine aside and stood back up.

“I’m going to call for help,” you assured them. 

You pulled out your mobile and tapped three keys before hitting the call button. They continued to writhe on the floor, exchanging a momentary glance of panic right before joining their victims in death.

After a deep breath, you tucked your phone back in your pocket. You arranged the useless EpiPens closer to their bodies. Scrutinizing the scene, you snatched up the cash and tossed the takeaway bag in the bin. 

You narrowed your eyes at the brothers one last time.

“And they say it’s never twins.”

With a smirk, you exited the flat and locked the door. If only the Jamison brothers knew you broke in three nights ago to steal their spare key.

And store their EpiPens in the freezer for a few hours.

They might have been more cautious eating the food you sprinkled with peanut oil.

At your flat, your shoulders shivered as the ice cold water prickled your skin. You turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. After drying off, you wrapped your hair in a towel and resumed your staring contest with your wardrobe.

With a pained sigh, you tossed a pair of grey trousers, white shirt, and a navy jumper to the bed. Once dressed, you flattened the collar of the shirt over the cashmere. You clicked the heels of your loafers together and cocked an eyebrow.

_ John is almost as pretty as you are. _

“Because I can pull off dark shades, you drunken…”

You sucked in a breath.

“Nevermind,” you whispered to yourself before tearing your eyes away from the mirror.

Peering out the window, you confirmed that it finally stopped raining. You grabbed your gun, mobile, and keys and dashed out of the flat for your weekly meeting at the Coleman residence.

Alice handed you your coffee, which you, as always, accepted with a smile. You sat down in your designated chair and wiggled so your gun wasn’t impaling you against the firm pillows.

Your lips touched the liquid as you mimicked a sip before setting the mug on the coaster.

“I have good news.” You beamed at them. “I’ve narrowed it down to two options for you.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “You’re faster than anticipated.”

“Only the best for my husband’s favorite clients.”

“I knew we were favorites,” Alice giggled.

“Both of them match your usual preferences. You just get to choose if you’d like to make an orphan or not.”

“Aw, trick question, Eve.” Ian leaned back in his seat and chuckled. “Glad to hear you haven’t gone soft on us.”

You smirked. “If anything, my recent brush with death has made my priorities clearer than ever.”

“What’s your expected timeline?” Ian asked.

“Two weeks if you have a location arranged. Three if you need me to take care of it for you.”

He waved his hand at you. “We’ve got it covered.”

“Well,” you rose to your feet. “I hate to cut this short. But I have an abduction to plan.”

“We wouldn’t dream of keeping you, dear.” Alice winked at you.

Your heart started racing as your breath grew shallow. You smiled through gritted teeth and started making your way to the door. Alice held it open for you and you gave her a nod.

“Oh, Eve,” she hummed. “I wish you would just drink the coffee. Then we wouldn’t have to do this.”

Everything went black.

Your consciousness returned to the world, but you didn’t open your eyes. Pacing your breathing, you felt the cool air across your body. You were stripped down to your bra and pants.

With the utmost precision, you gently twitched your wrist to confirm you were tied to the bed. Judging by the surface beneath you, you were in a hotel—an expensive one at that. You could smell what seemed to be steak and chips. Or at least, the olfactory remnants of the dish.

A soft hand stroked the side of your face.

“I admit you aren’t our usual type, dear.”

Gritting your teeth, your eyes slowly opened to glare at Alice. She shook her head then patted you on the face. The third pat was significantly firmer than the rest. It sent a wave of pain through the back of your head.

“I’m here to help you.” You narrowed your eyes at her.

“If by help, you mean ‘murder’, then yes. We know.”

“This is a misunderstanding.”

“We’re a nosy, retired couple. You didn’t think we wouldn't watch out for our neighbors? We know you broke into the Jamison brothers’ apartment a few nights ago.”

She stroked your shoulder and smirked.

“That’s when we realized that you were the one who killed Samuel. Those websites are so dangerous after all.”

She raised her eyebrows at you. You sucked in a breath and clenched your teeth.

“If you kill me, he will destroy you both.”

“The time for negotiation has passed, dear.”

“The only person who gets to take me to hell is my husband. He will shred you to pieces if you rob him of that right.”

“I think we’ll take our chances with the other dead Riley.”

You hissed through your teeth as you struggled against your bindings. But worse than you, these people weren’t professionals. They were hobbyists. 

“Are you almost ready, my love?” Alice called out.

Ian emerged from the bathroom without a shirt, but a belt in hand. He folded the weapon in half and slapped the leather together.

You wrinkled your nose at him. “Having performance issues, Mr. Coleman? You limp—”

Alice struck you across the face.

“Don’t you  _ dare _ speak to him like that.”

Controlling every muscle in your face, you bore your eyes into her.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened and she swiveled her head to stare at her husband. But Ian pounced on the bed with a growl and straddled your waist. Just as he started to lean in, you threw your head back and spat in his face.

“You really are a dumb son of a—”

He wrapped the belt around your neck and tightened it.

Your eye twitched as you glared at him. Seeing the unbridled glee on Alice’s face, you clenched your teeth and barely hissed out your next words.

“Tighter, Daddy. Just like you did Tuesday night.”

Ian’s eyes blew wide open as he stared at Alice. The belt loosened just enough for you to gasp for air. He snapped his gaze back to you and tightened down again.

“You lying, manipulative—”

“Ian…” Alice rested her hand on his forearm. “What is she talking about?”

He avoided eye contact and continued to choke you. But she dug her nails into his skin and commanded him to stop. He loosened his grip just enough for you to cough and gasp for air.

“She’s lying,” he breathed.

You furrowed your brow at him. “Was this not the fantasy? To have your wife sit in this time?”

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“This time?” She raised her eyebrows at him.

“All those times he’s snuck off without you. Said he was going to...what was it? German classes.”

“Alice,” he swallowed. “She’s clearly lying to save herself. I would never...”

“Oh, Ian. You never saw the evidence of the break-in, did you, Alice? I thought it was part of the act for a game of catch the killer.”

Her right eye twitched as she looked to her husband for an explanation.

“I promise you. I followed her and saw her break into their home.”

“But Ian,” she whimpered, “that was Tuesday.”

“It’s always the ones so adamant on family values who are first to break them.” You shook your head. “I thought you knew, Alice. I apologize for my part in your betrayal.”

“How could you!” 

She leaped to her feet. Eyes brimming with tears, she threw her hands into her perfectly permed hair and shook her head. You glared at Ian.

“I told you to tell her long ago, Ian!”

He struck you across the face and grabbed the belt again. Mercilessly, he tightened down as short-breathed gurgles whispered through your windpipe. But the broken hearts were there to win that day.

Alice slammed the butt of your gun at the base of his skull. He passed out instantly and fell over. The mattress bobbed with the shift in weight and you squirmed underneath him.

“Thank y—”

She rammed the barrel to your forehead.

“You WHORE!”

You swallowed and looked into her eyes.

“This is not about me as much as it is about your husband.”

“We were  _ fine _ ! We were fine until you showed up again.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

Her finger quivered over the trigger. 

“Alice,” you pleaded. “You know just as well as anyone that he can’t have sex with you unless he’s just murdered someone.”

“We finally found a system that works for us.”

“Isn’t it odd to you? That his libido spiked again in the recent weeks?”

“He said he was just excited to get to...to get to…”

“He was excited because he’s been practicing on me.”

She drove the muzzle into your forehead and you slammed your eyes shut.

“I thought you knew! But when I found out you didn’t, I told him to tell you. That’s what I thought today was about.”

The pressure relieved by an iota and you cracked one eye open.

“You didn’t…” she whimpered. “You really didn’t know?”

“Of course not! How long have we known each other? We, as women, must stick together.”

She lowered your gun and you softly shook your head. 

“Alice, I’m always on your side.”

Still holding your gun, she buried her face in her hands and shook her head. She set the firearm on the nightstand and slowly untied you. 

When your hands were free, you shoved Ian’s unconscious body from you and unbound your ankles.

You wrapped your arms around her and patted her back.

“I’m sorry this had to happen,” you whispered.

“What...what do I do now?”

You separated yourself from her and swallowed. Biting your lip, your eyes flickered to Ian. You took a deep breath and rested your gun in her hand.

“You’ll never get to start over unless…”

“But he’s, he’s my husband. We’ve been together over thirty years.”

“It was never about you, Alice. He was always more interested in the victims. And I think you've always known that.”

She hung her head and nodded. You placed your hand on her shoulder and waited for her gaze to meet yours.

“We can start over together. I can teach you everything," you promised.

“It’s not too late for me?”

“Never. The time will pass anyway. You might as well spend it learning to be a new woman.”

You glanced at Ian. Trembling, she raised the gun. But you placed your hand on her forearms to lower the weapon.

“First lesson, Alice. Be ready to run the moment a gun goes off.” You raised your eyebrows.

She furrowed her brow. But upon seeing the state of your dress, she chuckled and wiped a few tears from her eyes. 

“Oh, of course.”

You dashed to the bathroom and found your clothes. When you re-emerged, you threw your hair out from under the collar of your two tops and scrambled to put on your loafers. Alice gulped and glanced at you.

“Should we, should we wipe down for fingerprints?” she asked.

You finished tying your hair back and smirked.

“Look at you? Already mastering the mindset.” You popped upright. “But no, Alice. If we’re two women on the run, you don’t need to worry about them having your prints when you’re with me.”

Your breath hitched as Ian started to mumble and groan. Eyes widening, you looked at Alice and gestured for her to take care of the matter at hand.

“Alice, we have to go.”

“No, no. Oh my gosh, he’s my husband...I-I can’t.”

He moaned and threw his hand to the back of his neck. Ian started to prop himself upright and you dashed to Alice’s side. You plucked the gun from her hand and, without a moment’s hesitation, executed the sexual sadist with a clean headshot.

“OH MY G—”

But you ended her terror with a single shot between the eyes.

Well, shit.

So much for natural causes of death.


	61. The Consulting Detective is Out of His Depth

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

You were fucked. 

You were thoroughly fucked through to the highest of heaven, the lowest of hell, and every goddamn ass-backward street of London. You could wrap this in sugar, spice, and everything John and there was no amount of lying in the world—even for you—that could say you weren’t fucked to kingdom come.

Heart howling from the inside of your chest, you stole the Coleman’s 4x4 and sped toward your next target. 

_Three weeks ahead of schedule._

All you had was an address.

All you had was a goddamn address.

But there was no denying the 103 circles of completely and utterly fucked you were. So, frankly, at this point, it didn’t seem to matter.

As your chest heaved, you rolled down the windows. The wind tore across your bloodstained jumper and your eyes blew wide open with enlightenment.

You were completely and utterly fucked.

And _nothing_ mattered anymore.

You screeched the vehicle onto the sidewalk, painting the pavement as a holy display of your zero shits to give. After leaping out, you pounded on the door with the butt of your gun.

“JASON HOFFMAN!” you barked. “This is the FB—” 

You slammed your eyes shut and shook your head. 

“Fuck,” you whispered. You cleared your throat to try again.

“This Sally Donovan of Scotland Yard. I need to ask you a few questions about—”

The door flew open and your weapon was aimed in a millisecond. The woman sucked in a breath and raised her hands in the air. Gritting your teeth, you rolled out your neck. Your eyes flickered from her wedding ring to the fear in her eyes.

Fear. Terror. Surprise.

Genuine.

It was God’s honest emotion.

But you slowly entered the Hoffman residence, shoving aside your fleeting guilt knowing that she would be free of her great burden. It was only a matter of time.

You kicked the door closed and swallowed.

“Where is he?”

“In the kitchen. With the boys.”

Well, shit.

“Please,” she begged. “This must be a misunderstanding.”

“There’s a lot of that going around today.” You pointed with your gun. “Take me to him.”

Mrs. Hoffman nodded furiously and walked backward into the kitchen. When you were in Jason’s field of vision, he sprang to his feet. But you yanked her by her hair and put the gun to her head.

“Don’t try to play hero, Jason. You and I both know that heroes don’t exist and _you_ , you sick son of bitch, could never pretend hard enough to be one of them.”

“Please, we don’t want any trouble. Just don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt my boys. We can sort this out.”

You rolled your eyes as Jason’s sons—looking about six and nine years old—shielded themselves behind their father. Clicking your tongue, you shook your head and shot daggers at him with your gaze.

“The only person I’m here for is _you_.”

“I don’t know who you work for. But you clearly have the wrong house.”

“What the fuck is it with you misogynistic, assholes? I’m not working for anyone!”

You rammed the barrel into his wife’s head and she whimpered.

“Alright, alright.” Jason raised his hands even higher.

You furrowed your brow as you could feel his wife softly shaking her head. But your eyes went wide as you saw the older son pluck the mobile from his father’s pocket.

You started chuckling.

“Xander! Don’t,” Jason hissed.

But you bobbed your head in encouragement. 

“No, Xander! Do.” You tapped the barrel on Mrs. Hoffman’s temple. “Go ahead, call the police. The only thing I care about is taking dear ol’ daddy away with me.”

Clutching the mobile, the boy glanced between you and his father. 

“Don’t forget it’s 999 here,” you snickered. “But your psychopathic father probably trained you already. Just in case something like this were to happen.”

“Psychopath?” Jason gasped. “You’ve clearly got the wrong—”

“No, no, no! Jason! Don’t bore me with the feigned innocence. I know how you just looove to drown women then resuscitate them then do it all over again.”

“What?” Mrs. Hoffman turned her head a micron. “That’s not, there’s no way. He’s a bank manager.”

“You’ve done a good job hiding it, Jason. Better than mine ever could.”

You widened your eyes at Xander. “Well go on! Call the police!”

The boy looked at his father who gave him a nod. He started the call and murmured shaky words about a lady with a gun who wanted to take away his father. As rehearsed, he dutifully reported the address to the operator. You set aside your breaking heart knowing that this whole ordeal would be over soon.

“Well, Jason. I need you to come with me. But before we get on with our evening entertainment, you have to admit to your family what a monster you are. Can’t let them think I took away their knight in shining cashmere.”

“Jas-Jason, honey. It’s okay. Just, just tell her. I know, we know who you are.”

“But do you? Whatever your name is.”

“Melissa.”

“Do you really know who your husband is, Melissa?”

“He’s a good man.”

You threw your head back and howled in laughter.

“A good man? No, I’ve met truly good men. The best in the world. And that monster across the room is not one of them. He gets in spouts of irritability. Tends to snap at you out of nowhere and you have no clue why.”

“Well, everyone gets stressed.”

“You blame yourself for it. You think you’re not doing it right. Whatever _it_ is. So you bend over backward trying so desperately to fix his foul temperament.”

“I’m just trying to take care of him.”

“But then he goes off for a while. He says he needs to clear his head. And suddenly, as if by magic, he’s better.”

“A good walk can really clear the mind.”

Your eyes darted to the colored drawings on the refrigerator.

“Tell me, Xander. Did you ever want a puppy?”

The boy nodded.

“And when you asked about getting the puppy, did your daddy get mad? Like, _really_ angry and scary?”

His hair shook to and fro as he nodded again.

“And then after he got really scary, he got you something new? Fancy toy or something else to occupy your time with?”

“Mhmm. A bicycle.”

You glared at Jason. “Can’t risk having puppies around when you’re itching for a murder spree, now can you, Jason? Cruelty to animals is part of the homicidal triad.”

But your breath caught in your throat as a hauntingly familiar voice echoed from behind you. 

“Eve, put down the gun.”

You spun around and smirked at John—and the five guns now pointed at you.

“Oh, the Hoffman’s are in luck. They called the police but they also got the Hardy Boys to come to the rescue. Hi Greg. Sorry I’m not naked this time.”

You winked at the detective inspector. You could feel Sherlock’s gaze on you. But you avoided his eyes like your life—well, somebody’s life—depended on it.

“We know that you’re going after the client list,” John pleaded. “But you need to stop this now.”

“Do you know what this asshole does to women? He’s the reason Clint reached out to Doctor MacQuoid in the first place.”

Jason’s face lit up with recognition. He quickly erased the expression. But not before Greg narrowed his eyes at him.

“Do whatever you want with me. But only after I execute him for his crimes.”

“Oh my God,” Melissa whimpered.

“She left your husband long ago,” you growled.

“Eve.” John gave you a firm look. “We will take care of him. Put the gun down and let her go.”

His eyes flickered from the Hoffman sons to Greg.

“Alright, everyone lower your weapons,” the detective inspector commanded. “We’ve got children present for Christ’s sake.” 

He looked back at you and you smirked. 

“Nice try, Greg.”

“We can work this out.”

“I know this doesn’t end well, detective. You can trace at least two bodies back to me. No, this is the end of the line.”

“For God’s sake, woman!” John shouted. “You’re mates with the world’s only consulting criminal, this very police force, and in love with Sherlock fucking Holmes. If anyone has options, it’s YOU.”

“Was,” Sherlock whispered. “Was in love.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” You gave him a deadpan expression. “Sherlock, I’m not stupid enough to repress my feelings or I’ll be slave to them. Of course, I’m still in love with you, you brilliant moron. But that doesn’t change the work I have to do before Clint comes back.”

“He’s still alive,” Jason breathed.

“Yes, Jason dear. My psychopathic husband will be returning to London. But you won’t get to enjoy his services anymore.”

“You, you know these people?” Melissa scrunched her face at him.

“ _My_ people,” you clarified. “He uses me and my husband to get fresh victims. Sometimes splurges on body disposal services. Depends on his work schedule.”

“Jason, is that, is that tr—”

But before Mrs. Hoffman could finish the question of her lifetime, her husband knocked over their children and dashed to the back of the house. The silent confession incited Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and the _real_ Sally Donovan on his tail.

You rolled your eyes. 

“They’re going to catch him. And now you can let her go.” John gestured to Melissa.

“No, no, John. There’s still one more thing I need.”

“Which is?”

“Stop looking for me!”

“You really are mad if you think that we’re just going to let you go.”

You bore your eyes into Sherlock’s.

“Why can’t you just drop it?”

“You know why.”

“What will it take for you to leave me alone? For good?”

“He is DEAD!” John shouted.

Your gaze remained transfixed on Sherlock as you softly shook your head.

“Oh, Sherlock. Now who’s begging for more time?”

You could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he tilted his head to the side. But you cast remorseful eyes on him. The look alone nearly killed him.

_Nearly._

“I once told you that if I were to kill you, it would be with a single headshot.” You narrowed your eyes at him.

He swallowed and channeled his entire focus on you: desperately trying to sift through the 23588533 recovered files in his hard drive for something, anything, to use as leverage. But to no avail as 89% of them were corrupted.

With trained precision, you slowly removed your gun from Melissa’s head. You flung her to her sons and they scrambled for cover. You started to redirect the barrel of your firearm. But just as the officers raised their weapons again, you slammed the muzzle to your own temple.

“But I never told you, Sherlock, whose head the bullet was intended for.”

His eyes blew wide open as you took a deep breath. John lurched forward. But Sherlock outstretched his arm to force him back in place.

John shook his head. “No, no. You’re bluffing. Just let us take you home. We can get you help.”

“She’s not,” Sherlock whispered. “She’s not bluffing.”

“Brilliant deduction, detective. Because like you, I have a bit of a self-destructive streak in me.” Your eyes flickered to John. “Home is coming to find me, John. And unfortunately, while I wish with all my heart that it was the case, it’s not you.”

You looked back to the detective: your brilliant, beautiful detective.

“Now you’re going to lose me, Sherlock. But it's your choice if it’s with me running out _that_ window or with a bullet in my brain.”

“Even you can’t lure out a man with all your theatrics if he’s _dead._ ”

“All _my_ theatrics? You’re the drama queen. Don’t think for a second that I’m pulling the ‘fake my death’ kinda crap you do. I only let the men who beat me mistake me for dead. If I wanted to actually die, I would do it right.”

“You’re clever. Much more clever than this. Why are you so insistent on clinging to a delusion? You would really rather believe that your husband is alive? That over, over...are you _that_ terrified? Terrified of _us_?”

The light in your eyes shifted.

The light in your eyes shifted the way it always did when you told the truth. And that was the moment when Sherlock Holmes, emotional genius, was finally able to match your EQ and solve the case of the woman running from a ghost.

You swallowed and started walking sideways to the window for your escape.

“What will it be, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock, we can’t let her walk out of here.” John gulped, wide eyes staring down the detective in a futile attempt to plead for another option.

Sherlock drew in a sharp inhale through clenched teeth. You cast a soft gaze on him and the kindness in your eyes tore through him.

“It’s your choice, Sherlock. Will you _not_ have me in life or in death? We never made vows to each other. But this is the best I can give you. Since I was never yours to begin with.”

“I never wanted to own you.”

You drew in a deep breath. “Always so gentle with me. Like the others never were.”

You fired a shot through the window to shatter the glass. The gun was a few inches away from your temple in a millisecond. You could feel the burning heat kiss your skin and you continued your escape.

Sherlock could only hold John by the collar of his coat as you leaped out the broken window. It seemed he had infinitely more to learn from you. But he was ready for these lessons to no longer be about heartbreak.

Who does the consulting detective go to when he’s out of his depth?


	62. I ♡ London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, friends. My Eve is showing and I lied. We have a little bit more to go xD

You abandoned your jumper on the sidewalk, settling for your lesser stained dress shirt as you raced down the street. You hailed a taxi and requested that it take the most scenic route to a corner store.

The driver was grateful for the overpriced fare.

You dashed inside and yanked an ‘I ♡ London’ t-shirt off the rack. After swiping a pair of sunglasses and a hat, you frantically paid the teller.

“Have a place I can change?”

“Um, no.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your shirt aside before throwing on the tourist memorabilia; leaving the man’s mouth open as you strutted out the door.

You asked your new taxi driver to circle around your flat twice before doing the same on foot. While you only had two more names on your list, it was time to defy the words printed across your chest and abandon the city that stole your heart.

Yes, the _city_ that stole your heart.

Upon securing the outside of your flat, you dashed up the stairs. But your feet froze at the sight of the cracked door.

You paced your breathing and you crept closer. But a good whiff of air confirmed that the stench of burning circuitry was nowhere to be found. Rolling your eyes, you kicked the door open and aimed the barrel of your gun at your uninvited guest.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

He smirked. “I didn’t even have to ask.”

You tucked away your gun and shut the front door. Crossing your arms, you leaned into one hip and raised your eyebrows.

“Just where the fuck have you been?”

“Easy, Riley. Not everything is about you.” Jim bit his lip and scanned your body. “Tourist is a good look on you. But I wore it better.”

You tossed aside your hat and sunglasses and tousled your hair. 

“What changed?”

He clicked his tongue. “Didn’t take you as the clingy type.”

“No, Jim.” You rolled your eyes. “Why are you here _now_?”

“Are we not friends?”

“The very best.” 

You shoved him out of the way as you stomped to the bedroom. You removed a painting and jammed your fist into the wall.

“Oooh.” Jim grimaced. “That’s coming out of your deposit.”

You yanked out your passports, IDs, and a few wads of cash. 

“Good thing I’m my landlady _and_ my housekeeper.”

You withdrew your go-bag from the bottom of your wardrobe. Jim hopped on your bed and you tossed the duffle next to his feet. Clasping his hands in his lap, he crossed his ankles and scrutinized your room. Not that it was the first time he’d seen it that day.

You yanked off your t-shirt. After kicking off your loafers, you tossed your gun on the bed and stripped out of your suffocating trousers. Rolling his eyes, Jim drew in a breath and focused on your pile of false identities.

“You know you can’t use those.” 

“Of course I can’t. But I’m going to use them to get new ones.”

You threw on an athletic tank and leggings. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you shoved your feet in a pair of trainers. After pulling your hair back, you gave him a smirk.

“Unless you’re willing to ship me out of here yourself.”

“Nice try.”

“It was worth a shot.” You leaped to your feet and patted him on the face with a bit more force than necessary.

You stomped into the sitting room to retrieve your laptop. With a scowl, you shoved it into your bag before cocking an eyebrow.

“Want my gun? Have a feeling they won’t let me take it through security.”

He wrinkled his nose. “I can procure finer firearms than your American hand-me-downs.”

You laughed before picking up the gun and hopping in bed next to him. You leaned in close enough that your lips grazed his ear. With a smirk, you shoved the weapon in Jim’s hands. 

“Keep it safe for me. I’ll use it to blow your brains out someday.”

“I thought you learned from Sherlock not to make promises you can’t keep.”

He leaned back to flash a sinister smile at you. You patted his chest and sprang back to your feet. You put one hand on your hip and tilted your head to the side.

“I don’t suppose you could point me in the direction of London’s finest forager?”

“I can do you one better.”

You furrowed your brow. Jim rose to his feet and straightened his jacket. He reached into his inside pocket and tossed a passport at you.

With wide eyes, you caught his gift and raised your eyebrows at the accompanying ID and ticket inside. You gave him a deadpan expression.

“Anne Brook and a Danish passport. Really?”

“You should be honored.”

You wrinkled your nose and scoffed. “And you’re dumping me in Detroit? Jim, that’s just rude.”

He snickered. “They say long distance never works out. But they have never met us.”

“And just what do you want with me?”

“Spy was cute. But assassin is…” He put his hands in his pockets and shuddered. “Doesn’t hurt for me to have an American on my payroll.”

“I’m _not_ your employee.”

He wrapped his hands around your face as the light ignited behind his eyes.

“No, you’re Sherlock Holmes’ long lost love.”

You scoffed and glanced to the side.

“So this was your endgame? Drive me to insanity just to put an ocean between us?”

“You got me!” He beamed at you. “Got the idea from a dear friend of mine.”

“If you were that jealous, I’m sure we could have worked something out.”

“I don’t think he’s one to share. I tried to split his pet with him. But it didn’t take well.”

“Because you wanted to literally blow him to pieces. Judgment of Solomon, Jim.”

He gave you a look. “I never said I was the real father.”

You rolled your eyes. After a deep breath, you cast a scrutinizing gaze upon him.

“Why don’t you want me to stay in London with you? We could cause quite a bit of trouble.”

“Don’t tease.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re hiding something from me.”

“I adore this, this…” He gestured from his chest to yours. “ _Mystery_ between us.”

“Makes the sex better, doesn’t it?”

He bit the inside of his cheek and glanced to the side. Shaking his head, he slowly returned his eyes to yours.

“You were always going to go back.”

“True.”

“What do they say…” Jim put one hand in his pocket and looked at the floor. After a snap, he raised his eyebrows. “If you love something set it free.”

“Since when were you one to take cliché relationship advice?”

He shrugged. “What can I say? Been reading a lot of self-help books.”

“I’ll be back, Jim.”

“Oh, Eve.” He playfully smacked you on the side of your face. “I count on it.”

Sitting at the aeroport gate, your knee bounded up and down. Your eyes flickered to the mobile Jim gave you. No matter how much you paced your breathing, you couldn’t slow your erratically beating heart or quell the churning of your stomach.

You took a sip of water. Biting your lip, your thumb hovered over the buttons.

But, blinking away tears—they were getting obnoxiously inconvenient today—you shoved your phone into your back pocket. Shaking your head, you pulled it right back out to check the time.

Yes, check the time.

Thirty minutes to boarding.

Breathing hurt. Feeling hurt. Existing hurt.

Sucking in a breath, you entered a few keys to dial Sherlock’s answerphone. Your thumb hovered over the call button. But even you, the woman he could never get to shut up, were at a loss for words.

The best form of apology is a change in behavior. But there was nothing you could do differently at this point: the truth was out. 

You were a criminal. 

A criminal who was irretrievably in love with a brilliant detective.

You sniffled and wiped away a few tears. 

If the roles were reversed, you liked to think he would have the heart to call. With a hard swallow, you made your decision. But before your thumb could press the button for your final message to Sherlock Holmes, your vision blurred and the aeroport started spinning.

The entire fucking aeroport started spinning.

Your mobile fell into the seat next to you as you gripped the armrest for stability. You furrowed your brow and glanced all around you. But people continued to bustle about as intercoms rang through and planes soared through the skies.

Desperately trying to maintain focus you narrowed your drooping eyes at the water bottle slipping through your weakening hand.

“Oh, Jim. You fucker.”

The world went black.

When your consciousness returned from its drug-induced slumber, you sucked in a breath. Sitting...somewhere...you cleared your throat and put one hand over your closed eyes.

“You really don’t have to drug me to get me to do what you want.”

You shifted in your seat. “When I open my eyes, I better not be covered in blood.”

But when you tried to raise your other hand, your skin was met with the imprint of familiar metal. Your eyes flew open as you scrunched your face at the handcuff around your wrist. But the part that made your stomach drop was how it wasn’t attached to the handle of the aeroport seat.

But instead, the wrist of Sherlock Holmes.

With wide eyes, you swiveled your head around to see John. He was shameless chuckling to himself in immense satisfaction. You collapsed backward in the seat and stared at the ceiling.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Surprise,” John hummed.

You shot daggers at him with your eyes. He pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. But you shook your head and glared at Sherlock.

“Okay, I’ll hand it to you two. I didn’t see this one coming.”

Sherlock smirked. “Obviously.”

“But…” You raised your eyebrows at him. “I’m not a moron. I can get out of these in a second.”

You lunged for the cuffs. But Sherlock wrapped his hand around your face and brought your lips to his. Your heart skipped a beat as you kissed him back, aching lips grateful to be reunited with his after being separated for far too long.

“Now that’s just playing dirty, Holmes,” you breathed.

“Learned from a friend.”

You pulled away from him, free hand clamping around the seat with a firm grip. Raising your eyebrows, you looked at John.

“Here to turn me in?”

“No.”

“I’m a wanted criminal and you two solve crimes. I basically confessed in front of our good friend DI Lestrade.”

“And we’ll figure that out.”

“John, I’ve killed people.”

“So have I.” He shrugged.

You furrowed your brow at Sherlock. “Just where are you taking me?”

He patted you on the back and bolted upright, inciting you to instantly follow suit.

“You’re a smart woman. You can figure it out.”

You raised your wrist so the cuffs were at your eye level. With a growl, you narrowed your eyes at him.

“And if I scream that you too are kidnapping me?”

Sherlock threaded his fingers through yours and lowered your wrists to your sides. 

“Are you done with your theatrics?”

“My theatrics? What? No!”

You whipped your head around to look at John who covered his mouth and snickered.

The consulting detective— _your_ consulting detective—leaned in and planted a kiss on your stunned cheek. With your mouth hanging open, he smirked at you.

“Hurry up then. We’ve got an appointment.”


	63. Like Falling, Like Flying. Like Landing, Like Dying.

THREE HOURS EARLIER

Sherlock sucked in a breath as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob of 44 Eaton Square. John gulped from behind him.

“Sherlock...are, are you sure about this?”

The detective flashed him a scrutinizing gaze before throwing the door open.

When you dashed out that broken window, Sherlock stopped breathing. However, it was not at the sight of him losing you again. But instead, when he realized that—while you were a criminal and catching criminals was one of his many areas of expertise—the only person capable of manipulating a person as fluid as you was, well, you.

So against all his better instinct (or was it ego?), the consulting detective decided to proverbially follow in your footsteps and settle for the next best thing.

Right as Sherlock crossed the threshold, he spun around and furrowed his brow. He opened his mouth to reply. But just as John tilted his head to the side, Sherlock turned back around and shut the door in his face.

“Sherlock!” John pounded his palm on the door.

Heart racing, he yanked on the handle. He gave it one, two, three firm shakes. But knowing the door was no match for Captain John Watson, he balled his hands into fists after a hard swallow. 

With a running start, John charged at the door. But his eyes went wide when it abruptly swung back open. Sherlock stopped the inevitable effects of physics by placing a firm hand on John’s shoulder.

Pursing his lips, Sherlock tilted his head to the side and gave John a stern look. He focused his gaze on John’s eyes as the doctor’s breathing steadied itself.

“Not...dead,” Sherlock reminded him.

John sucked in a breath and slowly straightened his posture. He adjusted the lapels of his coat and cleared his throat.

“Right,” his voice cracked as he avoided eye contact with the detective.

Sherlock swallowed and waited for John’s wandering gaze to finally meet his again. John eventually took a deep breath and dragged his hand over his face.

“Alright, fine. I’ll wait here until the meeting of sociopathic geniuses comes to an end.”

“Psychopath. He’s a sadistic psychopath, John. Honestly, you’ve done your research.”

With a smirk, Sherlock gave him a wink and closed the door. John buried his face in his hands, ignoring the tightening in his chest. He was going to give Sherlock—

The door opened once more.

“Back in five.”

—minutes until, well, until...

John opened his mouth to speak but the door closed again. Crossing his arms, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath.

He also needed to remember that absence didn’t have to mean goodbye.

In the foyer, Sherlock blinked firmly and adjusted the lapels of his coat. He swallowed and sucked in a breath before striding through the haunted House of Adler.

White sheets covered what was left of the furniture. Jaw ticking, he entered the sitting room to see Jim Moriarty leaning against the sofa and flipping a taser through the air.

_Your taser._

Moriarty snickered.

“Just how would you describe your first meeting? She pulled a gun, you tried to steal from her.” He raised his eyebrows. “Felt you had a special _something_?”

“ _Did_ steal. I _did_ steal from her.”

“So true love isn’t dead.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Neither are we.”

Moriarty smirked and put a hand in his pocket. He clicked his tongue and pointed the taser at Sherlock.

“I know the answer. But I want to hear it from that desperately heartbroken voice of yours. What exactly do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and bore his eyes into him with a searing gaze.

“Fix this,” he spat.

“Oh, don’t play ordinary. I might just die of boredom. _Again._ ” 

He flashed him a sinister smile. But Sherlock tilted his head to the side and growled.

“Fix your mess.”

“You and I both know I’m not in the business of fixing things.”

“And you and I both know that you made a mistake.” He glowered at him.

“The only _mistake_ I made was miscalculating her capabilities. Thought I’d have a go at mind fucking her since, well, you took care of the rest.”

Moriarty wiggled his eyebrows. But he furrowed his brow when Sherlock threw the heels of his palms to his forehead and started...chuckling.

Grinding his teeth, Moriarty glared at him. “I am _proud_ of the work I’ve done on her.”

Sherlock bit his lip and glanced to the side.

“Your words spin one web. But your behavior spins another.”

“And since when was I one to care about integrity?”

Sherlock started pacing the room. He rubbed the back of his head and drew in a deep breath.

“She asked me why you didn’t call and I calculated eight distinct possibilities.”

“Is this how you try to impress her in bed? No wonder the woman is so sexually frustrated.”

“At first I thought it was boredom. The fragility of her mind was no use to you. No challenge, no stimulation. But then I realized, no, this isn’t disinterest.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It’s fear.”

“Oh, Sherlock. Perhaps it’s _your_ mind that’s lost.” Moriarty placed his hand on his chest and leaned forward. “Heartbreak will do that to you.”

But Sherlock shook his head and smirked. Feeling, for the first time since your departure, very much alive. 

...and very much like you.

“You finally found someone. Someone as changeable as you. But you committed your own sin. You got greedy. You pushed too far and you saw how she recoiled.”

“I don’t regret a thing.”

“Of course not. Remorse is beyond your emotional capabilities.”

“What can I say? I’m a minimalist.” Moriarty shrugged.

“Yes and that must get rather lonely. Now doesn’t it?”

“You should know by now that I’m not really a people person.”

“No, you just commit crimes, leave clues, and create elaborate puzzles in a desperate attempt to stave off the boredom that’s devouring your mind.”

“Jealous that my attention is no longer on you?”

“No, satisfied. Because you’ve proven my point.”

“Now who’s desperate?” 

Moriarty tilted his head to the side, casting feigned pity on the heartbroken detective.

“Desperation is a sign of life. And it’s seeping from you, James Moriarty. Because in your attempt to stave off boredom, you could do _anything_ to create destruction with your network and capabilities.”

“And yet, I bored myself with you. What a waste.”

Sherlock chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“Precisely. That was your fatal mistake. Instead of creating chaos for madness’ sake, you choose to look...for a _person_. A special someone who was able to match your intellect. Because you weren’t just seeking stimulation. You wanted to prove that you weren’t the only one.”

He lowered his gaze and pointed a finger at the consulting criminal.

“Because you, just like _all_ of us, don’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t need people. They all end up as dust anyway.”

Sherlock chuckled lowly. “You could have said that months ago and believed it. But circumstances have changed. Now that you’ve found her.”

“I’m no psychologist, Sherlock. But even I, the narcissist with psychopathic tendencies and antisocial personality disorder…” He shrugged. “Or so they say, can see that this is _projection._ ”

“You were relieved. You found a shapeshifter. Someone who has not chosen a side, but willingly dances between them. You were entranced because she doesn’t just help you stay alive. She helps you _feel_ alive. Because with her, you’re still falling.”

“Why Sherlock,” Moriarty pocketed your taser and smirked. “I didn’t realize you’ve become so self aware.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his chin. He leaned back on an armrest and raised his eyebrows. 

“Been reading a lot of self help books lately.”

“I hear they’re written in scars.” 

Moriarty traced his index finger down his body to mirror the scars across yours.

“You can play pretend all you want, Richard Brook. But as a _friend_ of mine once said, we were meant for each other. And if I need her, then so do you.”

Moriarty threw his head back and giggled. 

“Oh, Sherlock. If I could feel, I would be embarrassed for you and your shameless display of emotion. But I’ll settle for being entertained by it.” He stroked his chest and leaned forward. “But, as always, your logic is flawed. Otherwise, I would need to enlist a soldier in my ranks.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. “Have you not already?”

Moriarty narrowed his eyes. But Sherlock refused to relinquish his gaze.

“It’s your choice, _King James_. Would you rather be right?” He tilted his head to the side. “Or alone?”

Grinding his teeth, Moriarty glowered at Sherlock. His jaw ticked before he licked his lips and rolled out his neck.

“Both. I get to have both. Because, again, _not_ a people person.”

“If that is the case...” Sherlock leaned closer and narrowed his eyes. “Then why. Are. You. Here?”

Outside, John tapped his foot and held his breath. 

Four minutes and thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty—

The door flew back open.

He gasped a sigh of relief as Sherlock strutted through the street. Dashing after him, John cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

“Well?”

But Sherlock held up his fist and counted on one, two, three fingers before…

_Ping._

He stopped in his tracks. His abruptness incited John to slam his heels into the pavement to avoid ramming into him. The doctor was not successful.

Sherlock whipped out his mobile and smirked at the confirmation text.

Two plane tickets.

Destination: Detroit, Michigan, USA.

Now, as Sherlock looked out the window of the taxi with your head nestled in his chest, he wore that same smirk. Against all your survivalistic instinct, you finally succumbed to bodily need and fell asleep.

It was good you were resting: the final trial drew near.

The sun finally retired for the day and requested the moon take its place. The celestial body was grateful to stretch its rays and ignite the night sky.

John cleared his throat and rubbed his hands on his trousers.

“She might kill us for this.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “She could try.”

“She’s beaten you before.”

“But not you.”

John’s mouth fell agape. But the detective already resumed looking out the window.

With a gentle moan, you stirred awake and rubbed your eyes; bringing Sherlock’s hand next to your face in the process. You cocked an eyebrow at the cuffs.

“Still?”

He raised his eyebrows, only inspiring you to roll your eyes and flop back into your seat. 

“Not how I envisioned using these with you,” you grumbled.

He shrugged. “Exactly what I anticipated.”

John chuckled. You whipped your head around to glare at him. But he turned his palms outward and shrugged.

“It’s just...me too.”

You cleared your throat and readjusted in your seat. The weight of apprehension clung to the silent air. But, agonizing in the quiet, you bit your lip and glanced at Sherlock.

“I...I didn’t know how else to…”

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John cleared his throat to command the attention of the car. You cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Do you ever notice…” He pursed his lips and leaned forward before raising his eyebrows at you. “The only time you get caught is because someone attacks you from behind?”

You raised your wrist and shook out your cuffs. “You two just abducted me. By drugging me no less.”

John crossed one arm over his chest and covered his mouth with his other hand.

“If I were one to observe, which we’ve clearly established I’m not, I would say you’re relieved about that.”

“Don’t mistake my comfort for consent.”

“Oh no.” He shrugged. “Just like how Sherlock Holmes doesn’t secretly enjoy a little bit of undercover PDA. The only time he would engage in such pedestrian displays of affection is when he’s in handcuffs.” 

John scratched his head and glanced at you. “I would know.”

You leaned back into Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes at John. But when the doctor glanced up and shook his head, Sherlock leaned in to bury his nose in your hair. He planted a less than discrete kiss on your head.

Clasping his hands in his lap, John leaned forward and bobbed his head in a dazed trance. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Must be nice,” he mused. 

“Not having to flee the country?”

“No.” He shook his head and smirked at you. “Having two boyfriends.”


	64. Burning Coffins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for emotional, physical, and sexual abuse. 
> 
> When I started this story, it was just that. A story. A work of fiction to keep me occupied during the pandemic and incredibly trying times in my life personally.
> 
> But as we’ve progressed, I’ve realized that this story is not just any story. It’s a fictionalized piece of my story. 
> 
> This chapter was both excruciating and therapeutic for me to write. I believe it's the reason this story exists in my life. 
> 
> That being said, if you comment (which I wholeheartedly welcome), I ask that you keep in mind that this is not just a work of pure fiction. But you’re also getting a glimpse into one of the most intimate aspects of my life. So I ask for your kindness, grace, and thoughtfulness. 
> 
> You’re not just reacting to words on a page (that’s never the case for anyone’s writing, frankly). You’re replying to me and a core piece of my life. Please keep that in mind (for me and all your writers out there) if you are willing to share part of your experience with me too. 
> 
> Thank you for seeing me and for being a part of this journey together.
> 
> Stay safe and be kind to yourself. 
> 
> xo Melanie
> 
> Musical Inspiration for this chapter is [Rise by Katy Perry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hdw1uKiTI5c)

The taxi stopped outside an abandoned airstrip. 

Still connected to Sherlock at the wrist, he guided you outside as the cool night air nipped your skin. John grabbed your escape luggage from the boot and held out your leather jacket. 

You cocked an eyebrow and raised your wrist. With a swallow, John glanced at Sherlock. But when he gave you a nod, you freed your wrist and threw on your jacket. 

“Lead the way, Holmes.”

You shoved your hands in your pockets and strutted next to him. But when you saw the helicopter with Jim Moriarty standing outside the front door, your breath caught in your throat.

Sherlock glared at him with a scrutinizing gaze. 

“Took you long enough, Riley.”

“Fuck you.”

“Pass. I don’t take sloppy seconds.”

John tugged on the edge of your sleeve. “You, you don’t have to.”

“Your conscience is _adorable,_ ” Jim snickered.

You wrapped your arms around John and took a deep breath. “I’ve got this.”

When you withdrew, he patted you on the shoulder and avoided your gaze. You bit your lip before giving him a salute. He straightened his posture and returned the gesture.

You turned to Sherlock and cradled his face in one of your hands. Tracing his cheekbone with your thumb, you held your breath—memorizing the vision of his face like this.

“Friends?” you whispered.

“Friends.”

“I’ll be back this time. I promise.”

“I know.”

You gave him a nod before walking to Jim. After a searing gaze, you climbed into the chopper as the blades started to mercilessly slice through the air.

When your back was turned, Jim stuck out his tongue. Sherlock wrinkled his nose with a growl. But John turned him around to lead him back to 221B Baker Street.

To wait for you to come home.

After adjusting your headset, you crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. Jim studied you and cocked an eyebrow.

“You’re a terribly emotional creature, Riley,” he said through the intercom.

“You should try it sometime. Oh wait…” 

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“So you do love him.”

“I told you from the beginning, Jim. I’m a woman who delivers.”

You readjusted in your seat to look out the window as you ascended to the moonlit heavens. After turning off your receiver, you and Jim sat in silence as he took you to your final circle of Hell.

After an unknown amount of time kissing the night sky, the helicopter descended in a desolate stretch of greenery. The silent land made the countryside look like a bustling city. You landed just outside an ominous entrance to some darkened woodland. 

Its ground must have housed the dearly departed. For this land was haunted by ghosts.

You tossed your headset on the seat and leaped out, grateful when the grass welcomed your presence with a gentle groan. Jim pulled out a large plastic crate and handed it to you. Furrowing your brow, you accepted the oblong container.

“Sniper rifle seems like a horrifically inconvenient way to murder me.”

He smirked and shook his head, withdrawing a lamp to illuminate your journey.

“Trust me, I would make the experience much more... _intimate_.”

You sucked in a breath and followed his lead as you descended into the woods. After an unknown amount of time with only the trees and periodic chirps to keep you company, he stopped and gestured for you to set down the crate.

You placed it next to him and smacked your hands together, wiping them clean before starting the real dirty work.

“You gave him quite the royal treatment,” you murmured.

“Wasn’t for him.”

You gave Jim a sideways glance. He bent down to set the lamp into the damp soil. He opened the crate and handed you a shovel. Your eyes flickered from his hand around the handle and back to his face.

You bit your lip and he raised his eyebrows in return.

“Get to it, Riley.”

After a sharp inhale, you tore off your jacket and tossed it to the side. You snatched the shovel from his hands with newfound fire in your eyes. He certainly enjoyed the look. 

Jim pointed to the spot where you should start digging. Hands clenched around the shovel, you pierced the cursed Earth and slammed your trainer on top of the blade. He set up his phone with a speaker and commanded The Well Tempered Cavalier to ring through the silence.

He popped a piece of gum in his mouth and watched as your breathing increased in pace and depth. You added to Bach’s symphony with your own harmony of grunts, groans, and pants as you flung dirt through the sky.

As you continued to dig, Jim noticed the way your muscles tensed and how your shoulders glistened with a mixture of sweat, soot, and soil. Hair clinging to your chest and neck, you threw your head back and wiped your forehead with the back of your hand—painting more dirt across your drenched face in the process.

Raising his eyebrows, he offered you a water bottle. Panting, you reached out to take it from his hands. But he retracted it before you could wrap your hands around the stainless steel.

You gave him a look, eyelids fluttering in annoyance. 

Clicking his tongue, Jim held up a finger and shook it in your face. He placed the bottle on the ground for you to grab it yourself with your filth-stained hands.

Rolling your eyes, you leaned over and snatched the bottle from the earth. You moaned softly as the generous gulps soothed your burning throat. Breath heaving, you doused your face to rinse off some of the sweat and dirt that desperately clung to your skin. 

When you tilted your head upright again, your face was met with the shameless smack of a towel. You caught it before gravity brought it back to the dirt beneath your feet. After wiping your face, you set the towel and water bottle aside and glared at him.

“Do you need help?” Jim hummed.

“You’re a dick.”

“And here I thought you saved your insults for the baby angel. Perhaps you are developing feelings for me.”

You picked up the shovel to resume your work.

“If you weren’t my ride, I’d smack that smug look off your face with this.”

He put his hand over his chest and leaned back.

“And here I thought that I was the only romantic here.”

You rolled your eyes and continued to dig.

And dig.

And dig.

And dig.

You dug as your lungs set fire with heaving breaths. You dug as you clenched your teeth and grunts barely dared to escape your lips. You dug as your hands cramped and you shook them out in agony.

“FUCK!”

Your curses ripped through the air, inspiring a flock of birds to salute your efforts with their departure. You slammed the shovel back to the dirt and pressed the heels of your palms to your forehead.

Jim yawned and checked the time. You whipped your head around to glare at him.

“Is he even DOWN HERE?!” you gestured to your growing hole in the ground.

“I told you already. I do not disappoint.”

Grumbling, you yanked the shovel upright again and continued on your path to freedom. With every heap of dirt you displaced, your heart was burdened with the weight of your memories.

With the weight of your ghost.

The clothes he loved to adorn you with. The necklaces he bought to apologize for your misbehavior. The vows he made to keep you safe from yourself and the world.

His love tore through your life like a never-ending rain. Beating, beating, beating down on your exhausted, misguided soul.

First, it filled your socks and your shoes. You wiggled your toes in the new wetness with curiosity. For you never felt warmth like it before.

You welcomed his touch. You cherished his embrace as he whispered that you were his greatest treasure of all. Your heart fluttered at the safety you felt in his arms after all the years of living as an orphan of your own family.

Yes, this was love. This was now home.

But his torrential rain downpoured into your life. It rose to your knees, it graced your thighs, then grappled for the fiercely delicate intimate parts of your body.

And, for the first time, his love hurt. 

It created knots in your stomach and beating lumps in your throat. He cooed that it was just you. That you were young and stupid and in love. And that one day, you would learn to love him the right way too.

Yes, this was love. This was home.

You were just learning.

You were just learning.

The downpour stretched above your waist and continued to rise. It lapped at your ribs, kissed your breasts, and beat alongside your chest. And for once, the water felt warm again.

The gifts started to, once again, rain from the sky. You could gasp for air now that the pain subsided. And perhaps, just perhaps, you could tread this water for the rest of your life. 

For you had learned.

Yes, this was love. This was home.

But, determined to stay untamed, the waters rose to your throat as the truth of your predicament choked you. No matter how much you lied to yourself—and how your heart begged and pleaded to spin those lies into truths—the pleading eyes of the girl in the boot of his car could only scream what the knots in your stomach sang for years.

He was a monster.

And he was home.

In a single instant, you slammed the boot closed on your fate and hers. 

You transmuted your terror to rage. Your aching heart threw up iron bars to protect yourself from the poison that seeped through every fiber of its cursed tissue. You bared your teeth to the world and became both a weapon and a masterpiece of survival.

He praised you for your mind and your cunning nature became his to wield.

He adored your broken, bleeding heart and you weaponized your pain against his victims.

_Your victims._

He promised you until death do you part and you grew gills. For there was no more air to breathe in your watery, living grave.

No, this was not love. But it was home.

He was a monster. And you choose to become one too.

For you had nowhere else to go.

You spend years adapting to the new gruffness of your touch. You locked away the aches, pains, and tremors of your mind, body, and soul. You vowed to stop him. But with every cursed breath of your existence, he only seemed to grow.

And soon, that promise felt like nothing but a lie to ease your dying, withering conscience.

For you weren’t just a monster...you were _his_ monster.

He would always own you.

He promised you a life worth living. He swore you were in it together...that he’d be with you until the very end. But his vows were curses wrapped in silk sashes. After all, your chains would look better if they gleaned 24 karat gold.

His love tore through your life like a never-ending rain.

It should have been the first sign that you would drown underneath him.

Your tears ripped through your eyes and mingled with the sweat and soot across your face. They rained down to the soil as your breath heaved through gritted teeth. With every searing swing of your shoulders, you carved into the Earth as if it would absorb the cries of your tormented soul.

Your muscles ached from a life that was, at times, too much to bear. But you continued to dig. 

And dig.

And dig.

And dig.

And when your psyche could no longer hold the weight of your memories, marriage, and mistakes, God blessed you with the splintering cry of metal on wood.

You threw the shovel aside as a scream tore through your scarred, broken throat. Throwing yourself to your knees, you clawed at the ground to unearth the very body that buried you alive.

When the top of the pine box was finally bare, you sprang back to your feet. Ends of your hair drenched in soot, sweat, and sorrow, you flipped it over your shoulder as you whipped your head to drill your eyes into Jim. Your chest heaved as you gritted your teeth and clenched your fists.

In the glow of your fury, Jim soaked in the beauty of your unbridled rage—feeling, for one of the few times in his life, very much alive.

You clamored out of the grave to stand next to him and stare at the vacant canvas. For that’s all it was until you opened it. 

A box. An empty box. With nothing, no one inside.

“You can still walk away,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

You closed your eyes and swallowed. 

“Open it,” you commanded.

You turned to face him, ready to combat his protests. But, to your great surprise and relief, Jim Moriarty withdrew a scarlet handkerchief from the inside of his jacket pocket. He hopped down and opened the curtain of your masterpiece to reveal the rotted corpse of Clint Riley.

Your husband. Your creator. Your monster.

Finally dead to the world and dead to you.

Wiping his hands and wrinkling his nose, Jim reemerged from the depths of the grave and grimaced. 

Your lip quivered as your breath became shallow; staring into the cavernous holes where those eyes, those dreadful eyes, used to light up whenever they saw fear flicker behind yours.

Yes, John was right.

Clint was dead.

He wasn’t coming to get you.

_And you were going to be okay._

“He looks so ordinary,” you breathed.

“He was always ordinary.”

Jim scowled and shook his head. 

“But he was right about one thing. He made you who you are today.”

Your upper lip twitched in a snarl.

“Just what are you trying to—”

He held up his finger to silence you and clicked his tongue.

“Your brilliance is yours. But the only reason you know how to use it in the way that you do is because of him.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“That is his one and only legacy.”

Jim turned around to reveal his final gifts to you from the plastic crate: a tank of kerosene and a book of matches. You sucked in a breath and put the matches in your back pocket to relieve the kerosene from his hand.

After a swallow, you doused the corpse of your ghost in the fluid. Your shoulders begged for mercy. But you told them this was their final performance of the day.

Of your life.

“Believing you were his to cage was his greatest crime,” Jim hummed. “And for that, the heretic will burn.”

You pulled the matches out of your pocket and set them aflame. As the flames kissed your fingers, you drew in a deep breath before tossing them on Clint’s putrid chest. 

Yes, Sherlock was right.

Anything you touched caught fire.

The warmth of the flame licked your skin as the stench plumed towards the heavens. You could never breathe enough of the putrid air. Entranced by your husband’s funeral pyre, you could not tear your gaze from him as he charred into ash.

Jim shook his head as his face contorted in disgust.

You turned to him as he too fell in love with the sight of Clint’s body burning. 

“You did what I could never do,” you spoke lowly. “I owe you.”

“Our ledger is clear.”

Jim slowly turned his head and bore his eyes into yours. You gave him a single nod and you both redirected your gazes to the growing flames. 

“You know,” you murmured, “this only ends with one of us in the ground.”

“And here I thought you were all foreplay.”

You turned to him and waited for his eyes to meet yours. With a firm and uncaring grasp, you seized his hand. Jim’s breath hitched upon the touch. But you narrowed your eyes at him with a piercing gaze.

“But until that happens, Jim, I’m right here,” you growled.

“I count on it.”

You sucked in a breath and released his hand before allowing your eyes to consume themselves with fire once again. It would take an act of God to tear your gaze away from the sacrifice before you.

For you got to witness your soul soar from the ash as the smoke billowed to the sky.

Finally.

Finally.

Finally.

_Free_.


	65. Self Fulfilling Prophecy

“I could take care of this for you.”

“But Jim, I look great in orange.”

Staring at the dimly lit exterior of Scotland Yard, you sucked in a breath. Jim closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Her Majesty’s Prisons aren’t as barbaric as your American varieties. You get to wear your own clothes.”

You furrowed your brow. 

“Well, I only need to stand trial. Hopefully I won’t spend too long on the inside. You’re welcome to play along. Just don’t threaten anyone.”

“Are you going ordinary on me?”

“No, I’m asking you to expand your repertoire. Blackmailing the jury is so two fake deaths ago.”

He snickered. “Be careful what you wish for, Riley.”

“I just don’t want to run anymore,” you sighed. “I can’t put them through anything else.”

Jim giggled. With a smirk, you rolled your eyes and glanced at him.

“Yes, empathy is just titillating to you, isn’t it?”

“Convenient in this case.” He brushed off his shoulder. “I don’t have to keep you hidden.”

“I play better out in the open anyway.”

“That we do.” He leaned his head back.

“Alright, I’m heading in.” You took a few steps forward and glanced back. “I look forward to your riveting character testimony.”

You winked at Jim. But just as your eyelid shut closed, the consulting criminal splattered you with a canister of blood. It shamelessly mixed with the dirt and sweat across you as it slithered down one side of your face, neck, shoulders, and eventually to your fingertips. 

Eyelashes dripping in scarlet, you opened your eye and tilted your head to the side.

“Really?”

“I wasn’t going to let you walk in like _that_.”

You smirked. “Well, if you’re really after a show, give me my gun.”

“Oh no.” Jim clicked his tongue and shook his finger. “I’m cherishing that little keepsake.”

But he instead withdrew a knife from his inside pocket. Tracing it along your shoulders, Jim smeared the blood even more across the blade and your body. He stopped between two of your ribs and applied gentle pressure with the tip.

“Careful, Jim. You know what they say about killers who stab. Is all your equipment really working properly?”

“I’d show you myself, but you don’t deserve it.”

As your eye spasmed to avoid the dripping blood, Jim spun the knife in his hand to offer you the handle. You snatched it up and snickered at him.

“See you on the other side?”

“I’m not stepping foot in there.”

“Bummer. I was going to have you over for toilet wine.”

“I’ll make sure they convict you just for the occasion.”

“I don’t know,” you hummed. “There are at least three Englishmen who could benefit from me being a free woman.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t torment you along the way.”

“Oh, Jim.” 

You threw your hand to the side of his face and stopped just before making contact, sneering as he flinched from the blood painted across your palm.

“I count on it.”

You spun around and waved the knife through the air, sauntering toward the entrance to Scotland Yard. Jim snickered as you looked back and blew him a kiss.

The moment you pounded on the front door, you had five firearms aimed at you. You smirked as the blood covered knife clattered to the cement and an officer propped the door open. 

“Hey officers. I’m here for my date with Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

You smattered blood across the floor as the door to your jail cell slammed closed. After throwing yourself to the single cot, you rubbed the heels of your palms to your forehead.

“Can I at least get a towel to wipe off?” your voice pointlessly echoed through the hallway.

Your eyes started to flutter close as you started to drift, drift, drift to—

You jolted awake to the sound of clattering metal. 

“Ambiance, Greg. Women like ambiance.”

You swung your legs over the cot and buried your face in your hands. Resting your elbows on your knees, you dragged your hands down your face—but raised your eyebrows at your surprise guests.

“Oh hey, Hardy Boys. Like my new look?”

“We…” John sighed. “We could have helped you with this.”

You furrowed your brow. “But I did get help.”

“Oh my God.” John dragged his hand down his face.

You sprang to your feet and wrinkled your nose, spitting out a mouthful of blood and dirt. Walking to the front of your jail cell, you wrapped your hands around the bars. You traced your index finger along the bottom of Sherlock’s hand and smiled at him.

“It’s just a pit stop. I promise. Since hiding a fugitive is probably bad for business.”

“Are you…” He narrowed his eyes.

“Ravishing? Exhausted? Utterly in love with you? Even if you’d rather spit me back out and be done with my bullshit? Yes.”

Holding his breath, John watched Sherlock as he stared at you. You flashed him a crooked smile that quickly dissipated under his scrutinizing gaze. You sucked in a breath and slid your hands down the bars. Hanging your head, you bit your lip and closed your eyes.

“Sherlock...I am, I am so sorry.”

“I know.”

“I fucked up. I really fucked up this time.”

“Obviously.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. 

“I’m a cunning, clever, and manipulative woman.” You raised your gaze to look at him once again. “But this, I don’t know how to do this.”

Heart thumping within the walls of his chest, Sherlock lowered his hand to rest it over yours. He drew in a breath and swallowed, eyes flickering to John before returning to you.

“Neither did I.”

“And when, when I get out,” your voice cracked. “I’ll do better. I’ll learn better.”

Glancing down, John furrowed his brow before casting a sorrowful gaze on you.

“You’re, you’re not being punished.”

“Um, John.” Your eyes darted across the bars that imprisoned you. “That’s kinda the point. Trying to do right by your code and face the consequences of my actions.”

“No.” He drew in a breath. “You’re not being punished…. _by us._ ”

Sherlock felt your fingers tighten around the metal as your eyes went wide. With a few firm blinks, you clenched your teeth and stared at him.

“But John,” you breathed, eyes transfixed on the detective. “I left. I left you without a word knowing full well that being alone, being cast out and ostracized for being exactly the brilliant man you are is your, your…”

You closed your eyes and swallowed before looking back at Sherlock. 

“I made you choose between genius and belonging. Like everyone else. In fact, I took the choice away from you.”

“Um….” John rubbed the back of his neck.

“John.” You blinked aside tears as Sherlock drank in the sight of you. “How will you ever forgive me? For following through on my word, for once, and carving out your heart? How will you ever forgive me for being so undeserving of you?”

You swallowed and held your breath, eyes never leaving Sherlock. But against all your studies in matters of the heart, the detective surprised even you as the corner of his mouth upturned in the slightest smirk.

For he knew that you must have swallowed his heart just as you prophesied. It’s the only way you could ask the precise question he did when John Watson called himself his friend.

And now, you too.

Sherlock drew in a breath and straightened his posture, puffing out his chest as he offered you the gentlest of smiles.

“I love you,” he said.

You released an exhale. Breath filled your lungs again as Sherlock transformed those three words from burden to blessing. 

For love was not a lesson to be learned, but a type of life to live. And now, you get to do so freely.

Well, soon enough.

You gasped an aching cry of relief and gently shook your head.

“And I, I love you too.” You leaned in closer as your breath mingled with his. “We did say even in the throes of insanity, yes?”

He wrapped his hand over yours. “And back again.”

“About bloody time.” 

Greg scratched his head as he walked behind Sherlock and John. With a shameless yawn, he unlocked your jail cell. You pointed to the open door and glanced at the disheveled detective inspector.

“But I can’t—”

“Correct.” Greg gave you a firm look. “Two charges of first degree murder, false imprisonment, and...and something else. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Illegal possession of a firearm.”

“Right. And we’re still figuring out this, this mess.” He gestured to the blood and dirt painted across your body.

“This? This is art, Greg. Courtesy of my good friend Jim Moriarty.”

Your eyes flickered to the open door. “But if I’m staying here…”

Your next question was answered as Sherlock and John walked inside to join you in your exile. You crossed your arms and cocked an eyebrow at them.

“Just what the hell did you two do to deserve being stuck in here with me?”

“They threatened me,” Greg sighed. “Well, they threatened to terrorize London with a drunken crime solving spree and I am not doing that paperwork at 3 in the goddamn morning.”

You started to snicker. But before the satisfaction could escape your lips, John swallowed you in a bone crushing hug.

“I love you too,” you barely croaked before he relinquished you.

He leaned back just enough to flash you a haunting smile. Your eyes flickered to Sherlock. But he only furrowed his brow. John leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“Now, there will be no more murder, unless it’s me killing the both of you,” he chuckled lowly. “For being two of the most insufferable, clueless idiots—”

“—in love,” Greg yawned.

“Sure.” John relinquished you from his grasp. “Now get some goddamn sleep.”

He smacked you on the shoulder.

“No need to tell me twice.” Greg waved his hand through the air and already started his return home.

“We’ve got to stop meeting at this hour, Greg!” you called out after him.

He gave you the finger as he walked down the hallway. 

In two seconds, you magnetized your body to Sherlock. You wrapped your hands around the side of his face and brought him into a kiss. You could feel the smirk on his lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, unsatisfied with the physical restraints of this world.

With a sigh, John threw himself to the floor. He propped his back to the wall and practiced his own mental exercise. 

It might come in handy one day. You never know.

Interlacing your fingers in Sherlock’s, you guided him to the cot and threw your body to the hard surface. He latched his body to yours and buried his nose in your hair. But he instantly regretted the familiar decision with a gag.

“Smoke, 17-month old corpse, blood, and ancient woodland soil. You are disgusting.”

“It was this or therapy.”

“Actually,” John interjected. “That might be one of your better suggestions.”

“John, I’m going to prison. I don’t think I’ll have a lot of time to talk about my feelings.”

“Right…”

Sherlock moved your hair aside and kissed your neck.

“Are you sure about this?” he murmured into your skin.

“I think it’s a little late for me to go on the run.”

He rolled his eyes. “There are other solutions than running away from your problems.”

Mouth hanging open, you whipped your head around to stare at him.

“Too soon?” He raised his eyebrows.

With a smirk, you wrapped your hand around the side of his face and drew him into a kiss. 

“Mycroft does _not_ like me.” 

You nipped his lip before kissing him again.

“Me neither,” he breathed.

Pulling away, you shook your head and traced his cheekbones with your fingers.

“Let’s not problem solve tonight. I just, I just want to sleep. Doctor’s orders after all.”

“Thank you!” John outstretched his hands before flopping his forearms over his knees.

You beamed at him. “I care about your medical opinion, Doctor.”

“And I care about you.”

You wriggled closer to Sherlock and wrapped his arm across your waist.

“Can you teach me the chemistry of toilet wine?”

His hand tightened around you as he audibly swallowed.

“Right,” you tittered. “Might be, might be too soon.”

You flashed John a remorseful glance. The last thing you saw was his gentle nod as you fell asleep. 

Finally having someone to watch your back.

Even if only for the night. 


	66. Poorly Prepped Carrots & Rotten Strawberries

In the courthouse, John crossed his arms and cleared his throat. He frowned at you as you wrinkled your nose.

“I think I liked them better before…” You nodded to your cuffs. “At least I could scratch my nose easier.”

“Eve…” John swallowed.

Your eyes scanned the hallway as you avoided eye contact with the two men standing across from you. You looked down and giggled before throwing your head back, barely avoiding Greg’s chin as he lurched backward. You focused your gaze on the cracks in the ceiling and sighed.

“What a way to keep a woman. You should start a dating blog, Holmes.” 

Snickering, you nudged Greg with your elbow. “You could try it sometime.”

“Eve!” John lamented. “This, this is not how we want to…”

Looking down, he dragged his hand down his face and shook his head. You drew in a breath and glanced at Sherlock. He narrowed his eyes at you in return.

“Heat the ingredients before adding the yeast source, make sure it’s fresh, or risk increasing your chances of contracting botulism.”

“Are you two serious right now?” John looked between you.

You beamed at Sherlock. “This is kind of dirty talk I want to remember when I’m showering and surrounded by naked women.”

Greg choked on his, well, gulp of air…? John pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan.

Clearing your throat, you bounced on the balls of your feet and grinned.

“I am very much in love with you, Sherlock Holmes.”

He smirked. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You chuckled and nodded to John. 

“I’ll see you soon, big brother. I could use a chance to learn how to connect with women. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I love you too.”

Crossing his arms, John exchanged a look with you before staring at the marble floor. Sherlock pursed his lips as his eyes flickered down and back to you. You smirked and gave him a wink. But your mutual satisfaction faded to sorrow when Greg stepped forward and put his hand on your shoulder.

“Alright. We better, erm, we better get going.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you glanced at Greg. You looked back at Sherlock and John with wide eyes and swallowed.

“You’ll, you’ll visit me, right?”

“Of course.” John gave you a firm look.

Your eyes darted to Sherlock and he gave you a single, solemn nod. After lingering on his eyes for a moment, you cleared your throat and straightened your posture.

“Get me a new lawyer since mine already quit on me.”

Sherlock drew in a breath. His eyelids fluttered in annoyance. 

“He watches crime shows and pretends the cases are his. Even used lines from one that John watches. Consider his removal from your payroll a service, the best he could provide.”

John dragged his hand down his face. “Damn it. That’s why the website sounded so familiar.”

You smiled at Sherlock.

“It was very cute watching you—”

“Cute?” He scowled.

“—roast him. But I need a lawyer.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t make me call, Jim. His is bigger than yours.”

John’s eyes widened as Greg whipped his head around to stare at you. You sucked in a breath and raised your eyebrows at them.

“ _Network_ , boys. His _network_ is bigger. Such filthy minds you two have.”

“We’re, we’re on it.” John pursed his lips and nodded.

“Thanks, John.” You glanced at Sherlock. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Average time between first hearing and Crown Court is 162 days.”

You shook your head and snickered.

“Did Jim really wait that long?”

“Of course not.”

Your eyes flickered from Sherlock to Greg. “May I?”

Greg cleared his throat and gave you a nod. You held your breath as you took a few steps forward. Leaning in, you pressed your lips to Sherlock’s cheek. He closed his eyes, soaking in the warmth of your breath as you murmured onto his skin.

“You’ll know exactly where I am. I’m not going _anywhere_.”

He closed his eyes and bit his lip as you walked away. John dutifully took the lead on returning the somber detective to 221B Baker Street.

Time to work on your case.

Standing outside your new home for the foreseeable future, you picked at the sleeve of one of John’s jumpers. Your eyes darted between the empty bed and your new cellmate.

With her knees to her chest, she rocked back and forth on her bed and bit her nails. The guard shoved you inside. Your trainers squeaked against the cement as you stumbled forward.

“They’ll take that from you,” your cellmate murmured. 

“What?”

“The jumper.”

You snickered. “Yeah, good luck to them.”

Plopping yourself on the edge of your cot, you dangled your forearms over your knees and raised your eyebrows at her. 

“My friends call me Eve.”

“Presumptuous to say we’re friends.” She examined her nails and clenched her jaw.

“I never said we were.”

“Kristen.”

“And what brings a woman like you to a place like this?”

“Theft. Or so they say. And you?”

“Oh, I’m a serial killer.”

Her eyes finally flickered to you. You smirked as she scrutinized your expression. 

“Very funny,” she deadpanned before transfixing her gaze on her hands again.

“Well,” you shrugged, “the real story is that I have criminally terrible taste in men.”

“You make jokes now. But don’t worry. That will change.”

“Hm.” You threw your back to the mattress. “I don’t know, Kristen. I am one charismatic bitch.”

“Just don’t come crying to me when they beat that smugness off your face.”

“And here I thought we were going to braid friendship bracelets.”

Kristen scoffed before swiping a magazine on her bed. As you stared at the ceiling, she buried her nose in the glossy pages. But not without you noticing the occasional glances she stole of you.

You snickered as you thought about your new citizenship and paper trail. 

_Play a game of Mycroft or Jim?_

Probably Jim. Even with all his talk about long distance, it would be a pain to extradite you. Easier to charge you under a new cover and not make you pay for _all_ your crimes. Not today at least. 

But anytime your mind nibbled at the longings of your heart, you wrangled it back to reality. Hopefully, you’d get to create your own stockpile of entertainment eventually. It didn’t take long for you to get bored of this place.

By the time your stomach twisted in unsatiated protest, the guards called you to dinner. You swung your legs over your cot and sprang to your feet.

“Thank God, I’m famished.”

“Get used to it.”

You furrowed your brow at Kristen. 

“Just what the hell did you steal? All sense of joy in the world?”

But she was already walking past you. Before she could exit the cell, you scrambled behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. Kristen smacked your hand and spun around.

“Don’t touch me.”

You raised your palms in defense. 

“Fair enough. But can I sit with you? Isn’t that a—“

“Will you _shut up_ ,” she hissed.

“Not my strong suit. Just ask my…”

Kristen turned back around and exited the cell.

“I don’t care where you sit or who steals what from you. Just leave me alone. That’s all I ask of anyone in this Godforsaken shithole.”

You shrugged and continued to lurk behind her. 

In the dining hall, you held your breath as you strode through poorly shielded whispers. You could feel eyes burning into the back of your head and, frankly, from every other direction. When Kristen received her tray, the woman serving food smiled at her. 

“They didn’t prep the carrots as you suggested.”

Kristen rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”

You furrowed your brow at her and retrieved your own supper. Carefully lowering yourself to your seat across from her, you narrowed your eyes.

“You cook?”

“Used to.” She scooped up a poor excuse for a carrot.

“Why don’t you work in the kitchen?”

“Why don’t you let me eat in silence?”

You snapped your jaw shut and stared at your food. But, unable to ignore the heat of a gaze transfixed on you, your eyes flickered upward to a group of women toward the back of the dining hall.

The woman at the center sat with her arms crossed, eyes burning into you as she leaned against the wall. You narrowed your eyes. But, without breaking eye contact, she leaned over to whisper to the woman next to her. 

You picked at your food. After a few breaths, you held up your dinner roll and cocked an eyebrow at Kristen.

“What are the chances I can take this back with me?”

She swallowed and scowled at you. 

“The moisture content in those is terrible. You wouldn’t want it after twenty minutes. You’d chip a tooth.”

“I’m not going to eat it.”

“Ew, I do not want to know about your gluten fetish.”

You rolled your eyes before scanning the room. When the guards were looking elsewhere, you pocketed the dinner roll and shoved a spoonful of carrots in your mouth. You wrinkled your nose and held back a gag.

Kristen snickered as you choked down a swallow. After catching your breath, you pushed your tray across the table.

“What are you doing?” Kristen’s eyes darted around before glaring at you.

“Not hungry. Go ahead.”

She shoved the tray back at you and looked over her shoulder. You narrowed your eyes and nodded to the group of women at the back table.

“What did they do to you?”

“Nothing. Now shut up.”

You opened your mouth to ignore her request. But you were interrupted by a hand tapping its fingers along the edge of the table. 

With a swallow, you glanced at the woman who was, presumably, in charge of this social petridish of experimentation. She had two other companions standing behind her.

“Since you’re feeling so generous, I’ll take care of that.” 

She dragged your tray of food closer to her. Examining the remaining contents, she smirked at you.

“Not a low carb girl, are you?”

“What can I say? Could never stick with a diet.” 

You cocked an eyebrow and placed two fingers over the edge of your tray. When you tried to yank it back, she refused to yield and shook her finger in your face.

“Name’s Strawberry, love. And I oversee all transactions that happen here.”

“Strawberry?” You scrunched your face. “Because when you got in here you were in quite a jam?”

She put her fingertips to her chest and glanced at her two companions.

“Oh, we’ve got a funny one, ladies.”

“I’ll be here all night,” you growled, clenching your fists.

“Now, now, there’s no need to cause a scene.”

“Kinda my MO. But I’m turning over a new leaf. So…” You sharply gestured to your nearly untouched tray of food. “Go ahead, enjoy. I hear the carrots are to die for.”

“Your threats are cute, dear. But let me tell you how things work around here. Nothing exchanges hands without my approval and certainly not without my cut of the deal.”

She raised the tray to your eye level. “So while you might want to be generous and share this with your friend…”

“We aren’t friends,” Kristen grumbled.

“...I will be the one to determine if this transaction is acceptable.”

You dragged your hand down your face and muttered under your breath.

“There’s no way Jim put up with this shit.”

“What’s that you’re whispering, little mouse?”

“Little what?”

“Darling, your American is showing. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” You sprang to your feet and scowled at her.

Boring her eyes into the table, Kristen clamped down on the edge and sucked in a breath.

“Sit. Back. Down,” Kristen commanded.

You raised your eyebrows at her. But when her eyes flickered to you for just a moment, you swallowed and slowly descended back to your seat. 

“Best listen to your master, little mouse,” Strawberry chided.

Closing your eyes, you drew in a deep breath. Kristen buried her face in her hand as you bolted upright and reeled your arm back. She winced as a fist slammed into your face.

Your body stumbled backward and into the gracious arms of one of Strawberry’s companions. She stripped you of John’s jumper, leaving you in a tank top underneath as your body collapsed to the cement. 

“HEY!” you barked.

You scrambled to your feet and started to lunge forward. But a guard smacked a table with her baton, causing the harrowing sound of cacophonous metal to clamor through the air. You whipped your head around and she gave you a stern look.

Mouth open, you looked back at Strawberry who was examining John’s jumper. 

“Go ahead and share your dinner, little mouse. I’ve already got my cut.” She stroked the fabric and sneered at you. “Tell your boyfriend to send some more of these. I quite like the texture.”

You clenched your jaw and glared at her.

“Oh, I will. Just for you.”

She threw John’s jumper into the crook of her arm and strutted back to her table.

“Told you so.” Kristen shoved her empty tray aside.

“I let her punch me.”

“Sure.”

“And I am a serial killer.”

“Mhmm.”

You sat down in your seat, holding your breath as Strawberry displayed her new acquisition to the women at her table. When she threw it over her head, you smirked at Kristen.

“And I am turning over a new leaf. Because I’m not lying anymore.” 

When Strawberry’s head popped back through, you soured your expression into disgust. Grinding your teeth, you glared at her as she tossed her hair over her shoulder and winked at you.

“At least not to my friends.”

“We’re not friends.” Kristen rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, that’s what they all say. But just you wait, Kristen.” You passed your tray across the table and gestured for her to eat. “Just you wait.”


	67. The Fine Art of Cat, Mouse, and Oh Shit

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he scanned the bustling cafe. He leaned back against the window and tapped his index finger on his chin.

“University student. Just been dumped. Two, no, three nights ago.” 

He furrowed his brow at the server who traced her wrist but abruptly threw her hand back to her side.

“Chose to study engineering but already regrets it. Thought the decision would please…”

“Mom,” you finished. “Definitely mom.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “How?”

“I can’t give you an itemized list of deductions.” You took a sip of coffee and passed the mug to him. “But I just know.”

“Yes, your conscious mind can never seem to keep up with your internal processors.”

“Flattering as always, my love.”

Sherlock peered at you over the rim of the mug as he took a sip. Resting your forearms on the table, you leaned forward and smirked at him.

“Is this what you did while I was gone?”

“Of course not. I stopped a jewelry heist, solved a case of insurance fraud, and reprogrammed the buttons on the remote. Drove John mad.”

You cocked an eyebrow. “I know that you pretended my absence didn’t bother you.”

“For John.” He choked on a sip and set down the mug. “He was a wreck.”

Turning to face you, Sherlock clasped his hands together. After a swallow, he drew in a deep breath and met your gaze.

“Sherlock…” You wiggled in your seat.

He held his breath and closed his eyes.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

You placed your hand over his and smiled: the smile that made his stomach twist in knots.

“Was it really just for John? Or an incredibly convenient way to avoid your emotions too?”

“Don’t.”

“I couldn’t help but notice how you created quite the scene with the post office employees.”

You stroked the side of his hand with your thumb as he clenched his jaw.

“All I’m trying to say, Sherlock, is that I missed you too.”

He looked away from you. “We’re not, we’re not having this conversation again.” 

“Do you?”

Sherlock withdrew his hands from your touch. Closing his eyes, he dragged his fingers up his neck and into his hair. He released a sharp exhale that refused to alleviate the unforgiving tightness in his chest. 

You leaned over the table and wrapped your hand around his face. He hissed an inhale as his eyes flickered to yours.

_Not yet._

“Sherlock, do you love me?” 

Boring his eyes into the empty mug of coffee, he pursed his lips and covered his mouth with his fist. After three aching, shallow breaths, he glanced at you and swallowed.

“Of,” he released a slow exhale, “of course.”

He buried his face in his hand. After clearing his throat he looked back up to see an empty seat across from him. Even though he knew exactly what he would find, Sherlock plucked the toe tag that replaced the coffee mug at the center of the table.

_Stop looking. I’m already gone._

Name: Sherlock Holmes  
Cause of Death: Heart, defective; burnt to a crisp

In a cold sweat, Sherlock’s eyes bolted open. Clenching his jaw, he released a handful of the bedsheets. No matter how many times he changed them, there seemed to be a permanent wrinkle where you used to sleep.

Completing his nightly tradition, Sherlock threw his feet over the side of the bed. Elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands and sucked in a breath. When his breathing and heart rate returned to a semblance of bearable, he crept to the door.

But, breaking this particular cycle of heartbreak, Sherlock’s eyes widened when he saw the back of John’s head. Sherlock threw himself into his chair and hung his head back with a groan, sprawling out the rest of his body like an ambitious spider plant.

John pursed his lips and rested his chin on his knuckles. Staring into the darkness, he broke the thick silence by clearing his throat.

“She could have, she could have come here first.”

His eyes darted to Sherlock who continued to vacantly stare at the ceiling.

“But instead,” John continued, “she turned herself in with the help of Moriarty. Of all people.”

Sherlock grunted in reply.

John shook his head and leaned forward. 

“Okay, you have to tell me, what the hell was she thinking?”

He held his breath as Sherlock closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“She wasn’t,” he replied.

“God.” John dragged his hands down his face. “I thought, I thought I was going mad.”

Sherlock tilted his head up and cocked an eyebrow. Shrugging, John turned out his palms and raised his eyebrows.

“I couldn’t figure it out. You two are always thinking twelve steps ahead. But this, well, this—”

“Seemed completely reckless, impulsive, and thoughtless?”

“Well, erm, yes.”

“Brilliant deduction, John. You only missed the part where it was utterly moronic.”

“So...it’s, it’s not just me.”

“No.” Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “You are not alone. This wasn’t clever, it was negligent. I’m insulted.”

“That she didn’t ask you for help?”

Sherlock scowled.

“No! I’m insulted that I….that I could…” He wrinkled his nose. “...with someone so…”

“Emotionally driven?”

“I was going to say senseless. But yes, that too.”

“Well, at least she didn’t fake her death on us.”

Sherlock snapped his gaze to John and narrowed his eyes. “I thought you were over that finally?”

“I mean…”

“Yes, well then.”

Jaw ticking, Sherlock resumed focusing his gaze on the spot on the mantel where Clint left his gift many months ago. John took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.

“So you finally picked a lawyer.”

“Is he not to your satisfaction?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Well, considering it’s...you...I’m sure you’re quite satisfied.”

“John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The man’s name is Oliver Davies. I never considered you one to be so daft as to confuse me with another person.”

“I mean, I’ve heard of murder by proxy. But lawyer by proxy. That’s a new one. Even for me.”

“Oh for God’s sake.” Sherlock shifted in his chair. “I was merely giving him suggestions. Strongly worded suggestions because he, like all the rest of them, is incapable of understanding even the basics of these...these laws.”

“You could just become a lawyer.”

“I don’t have the time nor patience to qualify as a barrister. It would only distract me.”

“Yeah, you only need to break your spree killer girlfriend out of prison.”

“Serial killer, John. She had a cooling off period.”

“Should we…” John furrowed his brow. “Should we be more concerned about the fact that we will be housing one of the most dangerous, manipulative, violent criminal women in, well, probably the world?”

“John.”

“Hm?”

“Timing.”

John chuckled and shook his head. “Right, little late for that.”

“Just a bit.”

Hours later, you tucked away a fruit cup in your growing stash of dining hall contraband. Kristen cocked an eyebrow from behind her magazine.

“You know that’s going to come out horribly.”

You hopped on your mattress and crossed your legs.

“Precisely.”

Growing more accustomed to your cryptic nature, she rolled her eyes and continued reading. You leaned over and lowered the top of the magazine to eye her.

“Tell me about your robbery.”

“No.” She shot the magazine back to her face.

“But I’m bored.”

“My misfortune is not for your entertainment.”

You rolled your eyes and threw your back to the mattress. Wriggling to a semi-comfortable position, you continued counting the specks on the ceiling.

“It’s just,” you continued, “I know you didn’t do it.”

Kristen slammed the magazine to her lap and stared at you.

“How could you if you don’t even know what happened?”

“I don’t have to know what happened. But I do know you.” You turned your head to the side and raised your eyebrows at her. “You’re no thief.”

She grumbled and resumed reading. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, no thanks to you. I know people who could help you. Who could prove your innocence.”

“I don’t need your help.” She flipped the page. “Or your friendship.”

“What did you do on the outside?”

Kristen tossed the magazine aside and dragged her hands down her face. “Let’s make a deal.”

“Does it come with a secret handshake?”

“You get to ask me three questions a day. But aside from those questions, you have to shut up and leave me alone.”

“Alright, I’m game.” You sat upright and narrowed your eyes. “What did you do on the outside?”

“I worked in a kitchen.”

“Doing what?”

“Rotisseur.”

You furrowed your brow and muttered under your breath. “Rotisseur?”

“I was in charge of roasting meats and preparing the sauces that went with them.”

“How long—”

“No, that was three questions.” She leaned over to snatch the magazine again.

You rolled your eyes. “That last one was to myself.”

“I still gave you an answer, didn’t I?”

“You’re going to condemn me on a fucking technicality?”

She shrugged and flipped to her previous page. But, a relentless curse you were, you leaned forward and cleared your throat.

“I have one more question. But it has nothing to do with you.”

“Fine!” Kristen glared at you. “One more. But then you’re going to follow the rules of our arrangement.”

“Isn’t that a lot to ask of a crimi...no wait. Do we get visitors today? I thought I heard—”

“Yes, as long as you don’t start any shit with anyone.”

“Hey, I do not start fights. They just...find me.” You scowled at her.

“You used your three questions. Shut up.”

“Oh, no. But I’m quite liking this game,” Strawberry cooed from outside your cell.

In a heartbeat, you sprang to your feet to close the door. But one of her shadows stomped her foot down to keep it open.

“Relax, little mouse. I’m not here for you.” She smacked you on the side of your face.

Kristen bore her eyes into the cement between your two beds.

“I told you. I couldn’t get any,” she grumbled.

Strawberry shoulder checked you and sat next to Kristen. Leaning in, she stroked the side of Kristen’s face and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“But my sweet sous chef, I require finer delicacies than this establishment has to offer.”

Kristen slammed her eyes shut. “You’ll just have to wait.”

“And since when have I ever been a woman of great patience?”

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“Then you know that I take no joy in what I must do next. I don’t have a job to take from you anymore. But this will have to do.”

She slowly rose to her feet as her two companions started closing in on Kristen. But right as one of them lurched forward, she winced as a fruit cup smacked the side of her face.

From outside the cell, you whistled.

“Here, here!” You waved another fruit cup in the air. “Wanna fight? You wanna fight?”

Strawberry’s women glanced at her for direction. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms.

“And here I was going to let you be today.” Strawberry raised her eyebrows at the woman whose face you hit. “Amber? Do we let little mice treat us like this?”

Amber sneered at you. But you only shrugged in reply.

“What can I say? I’m a dumb, brash American.”

You threw the fruit cup. But Amber instantly caught it with a smirk.

“Oh shit,” you whispered before bolting down the hallway.

You whizzed past a guard who was shoved aside by your three pursuants. Scrambling through the common area, you hopped from table to table. Your graceless footsteps destroyed two puzzles and one game of chess.

It was checkmate in three moves anyway.

Leaving a trail of complete chaos in your wake, inmates started shouting and shoving each other. Intervening guards only contributed to the mayhem as they tried to regain control.

Strawberry pushed through the crowd and marched forward. You heard a piercing shriek that threw your heart into your throat. 

Lungs burning, you skidded through the hallways. You glanced over your shoulder to confirm that they were narrowing the distance between you. Options dwindling, you threw yourself through two double doors and stumbled into (what you quickly learned was) the kitchen.

The moment Strawberry threw the doors open, the workers darted from their stations and cowered in the corner. Strawberry lowered her gaze to one of the guards who instructed the other two to exit.

You grabbed a tray and spun around, eye growing wide at the blood on the sharpened toothbrush handle in Amber’s hand.

“You are one cutthroat bitch,” you growled.

Her eyes flickered from the blood spots on the floor and back to you.

“Why thank you.”

Amber lurched forward. You smacked her on the side of the face with the tray. The impact instantly splintered it to pieces. 

While she regained her balance, your eyes darted all around. You yanked a massive pot off a burner and gritted your teeth as you tossed the boiling sludge in Amber’s direction.

Her cries ripped through the air as (what appeared to be) pieces of potatoes dripped down her face. She dropped the shiv and Strawberry lunged forward to snatch it from the cement.

Eyes darting around, you inched toward the back of the kitchen as Strawberry’s other attacker narrowed in on you. You yanked a ladle from the hob but she latched her palm to your wrist and twisted until you released. 

She seared your palm on the hot burner. Howling in pain, you kicked her square in the chest and she went flying alongside the counter. As Strawberry reached out to grab your hair, you tossed your hand to the counter. But instead of retrieving the ladle, you hand wrapped around a carrot.

A fucking carrot.

Instinctually, you slammed the end of it into her face.

“SHIT!” you yelped as she yanked on the hair at the base of your head.

Carrot in hand, you threw your palm over hers and clamped down. With your free, albeit burnt, hand, you pushed up on her elbow—tilting her backward just enough to remove your hand from your hair and slam the carrot into her mouth. 

Her back smacked to the floor and the shiv flew from her hand. Strawberry spat the carrot out with a cough. But when she looked back up, you were on top of her with the shiv pressed to her neck.

“Shouldn’t have made me a rodent,” you growled. “Because in a game of cat and mouse, I always win.”

She snickered. “This is just round one, little mouse. And I’ve already beat you.”

You furrowed your brow. But before you could ask her to clarify, the guards yanked you off her and disarmed you.

“Fuck!” you spat as they dragged you off.

She blew a kiss to you.

“Maybe I’ll get that boyfriend to visit me instead.”

At the entrance to the prison, John tapped his finger on the counter.

“Are you sure?” he asked the guard.

“Sorry. But she’s in solitary confinement. No visitors today.”

Pursing his lips, John threw his hands in his pockets and exited the prison with Sherlock. Once outside, John spun around and pointed a finger.

“Stop laughing. This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” Sherlock snickered.

John dragged his fingers through his hair. “You were right.”

“Hm?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I’m not saying it again.” John threw his head back and sighed. “But if we get caught, I’m murdering you before we ever get to prison.”

Sherlock scoffed. “We won’t get caught. Art of disguise is hiding in plain sight.”

“And what medical background do you have?” 

John unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a lab coat underneath. Sherlock furrowed his brow. 

“Exactly,” John chided. “Today, _you_ get to be my assistant.” 

He shoved his jacket to Sherlock’s chest and stomped away. Wrinkling his nose at the discarded clothing, Sherlock scurried after John.

Feeling quite excited to see you too.


	68. The Doctor Will See You Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is doing okay and staying safe. I made a playlist for the songs that have inspired me for this story. Not all of them made it in explicit chapter shoutouts. But they’ve all contributed to my creative process! You can listen in [here.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2s4itKKso6pvGr3BPuiIx5?si=cv9i2YslTaa2jGJpxcYVoQ)

“Inside.” 

The guard gestured to the entrance of the solitary confinement cell. Hand wrapped around your wrist, you raised your eyebrows at her.

“I’ve been on some terrible dates. But this has to be the worst location by far.”

The guard gave you a deadpan expression and she shoved you in the cell. 

“Order a bottle of wine—” 

You spun around just as the door slammed shut.

“—to start us off,” you whispered.

Burnt hand trembling, you threw your back to the wall and sank to the floor. You held out your palm as you hung your head, gritting your teeth at the searing pain upon your skin. 

Your shoulders quivered. But these shakes grew violent as your breathing labored and tears stung your eyes. Your chest felt like it would collapse in on itself; your vision smeared the dull shapes and colors of the room together. 

But your hiccuped sob was interrupted when the door opened again. Sniffling, you bolted upright and rubbed your eyes with the back of your wrist.

“Made up your mind?” your voice trembled. “Red or white?”

“The doctor will see you now.”

“Really? Because five minutes ago, they told me to walk it off.”

The guard entered your cell and yanked you by the back of your shirt. She rolled her eyes and led you out the door. 

The echo of your footsteps haunted you on the way to the infirmary. You pursed your lips and slammed your eyes closed in a feeble attempt to keep your tears and overbearing (according to some) emotions at bay.

When you arrived, the guard gestured for you to situate yourself on the examination table. She started to exit but you called out to her.

“Aren’t you supposed to stay and make sure I don’t murder someone?”

She placed her hand on the doorframe and raised her eyebrows.

“New guy. Insists on private patient time because of his military experience.”

“Military,” you whispered as she closed the door. 

Closing your eyes, you threw your head back and sucked in a breath. A single heartbeat later, the door swung back open. 

“Inmate 177.” John flipped through the papers in your file. “Seems like you’ve gotten yourself into quite a bit of trouble.”

He slammed the folder shut and raised his eyebrows. Standing behind him, Sherlock raised his gaze to meet yours for just a moment. Your wide eyes flickered to the security camera on the ceiling.

“Um, yes.” You cleared your throat. “Apparently I like to start fights.”

“I’m sure of it.” John shoved the folder into Sherlock’s hands. “Let’s get a look at that burn.” 

Slowly approaching you, John pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. You bit your lip and outstretched your palm for him to examine it.

John clenched his jaw as he took your hand in his. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath—still seeing the glowing coils from behind his eyelids.

You glanced at Sherlock. But his eyes were transfixed on your injury. Dissatisfied with this attention, you squirmed and cleared your throat.

“It, it doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks.”

“My sister is one of the best liars in the world, inmate.” John gave you a firm look. “I can tell you’re lying to me.”

You buried your smirk and glanced to the side. With a swallow, John nodded to Sherlock.

“Get a basin of cool, not cold, water. And plenty of gauze.”

Jaw ticking, Sherlock grunted and exited the room. John leaned in and spoke barely above a whisper.

“What happened?”

You sucked in a breath and stared at him. “My cellmate. She doesn’t belong here. I, I need you to look into her case.”

“What happened _to you_?”

“Her name is Kristen and she used to work as a rotisseur in a kitchen. That’s all I know.”

John shook his head just as Sherlock reentered the room. 

“Now,” the doctor instructed, “wet the gauze and wrap it firmly around her hand.”

Your eyes flickered between them. “Who is he?”

“My assistant. He’s still learning.”

Sherlock shot daggers at him with his eyes as he dipped a stretch of gauze in the water. But his gaze instantly softened when it met yours. Pursing his lips, he nodded for you to offer him your hand.

With the utmost delicacy, Sherlock placed the tips of his fingers around your hand. He unwound the gauze to conceal your injury and applied gentle pressure with the cool fabric. You hissed an inhale as the moisture met your searing skin. But Sherlock’s hands never left yours.

“What do you know…” John examined his assistant’s work. “You _are_ good for more than puss extraction and rectal exams.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before glaring at him. Lowering your head, you snorted a chuckle and smiled at them both. 

John shook a finger at your palm. “We’ll need to keep that on for the next ten, no, fifteen minutes before applying fresh bandages to it.”

“Careful, Doctor.” You smirked at Sherlock. “That’s all it takes to fall in love with me.”

Cradling your hand in his, he stroked your wrist with his thumbs. You watched him trace your uninjured skin and your breath hitched at his gentleness.

John crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.

“While we’re waiting, mind telling us what got you in here?”

“Went on a date with a criminal mastermind.”

“How long are you in for?”

“I, I don’t know. I haven’t been tried yet.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Are you familiar with the legal system here?”

“No.” You swallowed and looked at Sherlock. “But I’ve enlisted the help of a good friend to find me sufficient legal representation.”

John cleared his throat. “Do you know what you would say to them? Your lawyer?”

You bit your lip and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Get me out of here. I don’t care what I have to say or do. Just get me out of here. As long as it’s legal.”

You glanced down and shook your head.

“I only turned myself in so a few detectives didn’t have to stow me away. Makes for an awkward Christmas party if my gift is an arrest warrant.”

“And now?” Sherlock asked.

“I just want to go home.” You placed your uninjured hand over Sherlock’s and drew in a breath. “I am so done running.”

Noticing the look in your eyes, Sherlock smirked. You bit your lip and glanced at John.

“His bedside manner is exquisite. One can only imagine receiving a rectal exam.”

John dragged his hand down his face and stared at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“I can never escape,” he gasped.

“Please,” Sherlock scoffed, “you walked right into that one.”

You furrowed your brow. “Have we met before? Or are you talking about how I managed to end up in prison?”

“I see the experience isn’t treating you well?” John glanced you up and down.

You shook your head and laughed. “I am making excellent friends. Ones who love to steal my clothes and stab people. It’s like I’m back home. Or, what used to be home.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Does she smoke?”

“Not adamantly. But yes.” You furrowed your brow. 

“And she likes to wear what she steals from you?”

“She’s quite jealous. But I don’t think it will fare well for me if the prison doctors intervene on my behalf. No matter how pretty you may be.”

“Of course not.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Don’t mistake my _exquisite_ bedside manner for concern. It’s data collection. Can’t have our inmates suffering from the negative effects of nicotine.”

“No,” you gasped. “Don’t tell me you have a secret prison lover, my brilliant doctor. She would be a terrible choice.”

Sherlock released his grip from your hand and took a step back.

“These accusations are not only unflattering but also incredibly dangerous.”

“Right,” John cleared his throat. “Clean off that burn and wrap it in fresh bandages.”

As Sherlock followed through on the doctor’s orders, his jaw ticked; watching your muscles tightened under his grip. 

“S’fine,” you hissed. 

But he was unimpressed with your lie.

When Sherlock completed cleansing your wound, John strode over to examine your hand. He swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Should take two or three weeks to heal. _Don’t_ agitate any of the blisters.”

“I promise to take it easy.”

He gave you a nod and let Sherlock finish bandaging your hand, fingertips lingering on your skin. You softly smiled at him.

“This is the finest medical care I could have dreamed of. And from two very handsome doctors, no less.”

John shook his head. “He’s not a doctor yet. Just a medical student shadowing me for the day.”

Grinding his teeth, Sherlock rolled his eyes. But his expression melted when you wrapped your other hand around the side of his face.

“Then I wish you the best of luck in your studies.”

“And I wish you the best of luck not getting assaulted. Start a row and I give you no more than ten minutes without suffering long term damage.”

“Try me, Mr. Not Doctor. Ten minutes is all I need.”

You gave him a wink. But Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and drew in a breath. John clicked his tongue and took a step toward the door.

“Take care of yourself.” He looked at you with concern. “I hope you’ll be out of here soon.”

Chest tightening, you watched Sherlock and John exit the examination room. John gave you a salute right before closing the door.

Not a moment after, the guard came back to return you to solitary confinement. Back in the cell, you laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling. 

After a few deep breaths, you closed your eyes and descended into your heart. Your eyes flew open to find yourself lying on the couch at 221B Baker Street. 

Looming over you, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow with a mug in hand. He sharply gestured with his head for you to sit upright.

You moved over on the couch and he sat down next to you. You reached for the mug. But before you could wrap your hand around the ceramic, Sherlock took a sip.

“I miss you too.” You rolled your eyes.

He drew in a breath and set the mug out of your reach. You crossed your arms and leaned back on the couch. 

“You’re mad at me.”

“Excellent deduction.” He continued to look forward.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes glanced downward before focusing on you. 

“I’m uninterested in your remorse.”

“Is this what I’m going to get when I finally come home?”

“If.” He narrowed his eyes.

“Well, if it’s a case of ‘if’, I say that’s more your fault than mine.”

“Not fault. Decision. I can keep you in here for life. Just ask Mrs. Hudson.”

“What the—” You scrunched your face and leaned forward. “Then why did you bother visiting me? Who the hell bothers to break _into_ a prison?”

“John asked.” He shrugged. “Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment.”

“So you did this just to prove that you can pick the right moment?”

“Well it certainly wasn’t to see you.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

You sprang to your feet and leaned forward.

“What the fuck is going on with, with…”

Nostrils flaring, you gritted your teeth and glared at him. Your eyes darted from Sherlock to the blood stained floorboards. Sucking in a breath, you closed your eyes and dragged your hands down your face.

“...with me,” you whispered. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Your eyes went wide and you snapped your gaze back to him.

“I’m making this all up, aren’t I?”

“Took you long enough.” He smirked. “You’re clever. Just too emotionally involved.”

“Well, you would know, wouldn’t you?” 

You crossed your arms and tilted your head to the side. Sherlock readjusted in his seat to face you. Elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands and leaned forward.

“You already have all the evidence you need.”

“Of what?” You wrinkled your nose. “I wasn’t looking for evidence.”

Sherlock gave you a deadpan expression. “You’re only lying to yourself. Quite literally.”

Rubbing your thumb over your palm, you looked down to see your burn mark was gone. Your gaze flickered back to him and you held your breath.

Sherlock stood up. Your eyes widened as he took a few steps toward you. But when he placed his hands on your shoulders, you held your breath. He gently traced his palms down to your elbows and looked in your eyes. The corner of his lip upturned in the slightest grin.

“I love you too.”

Your eyes opened and your pupils shrank in the light. You winced as the pain in your palm returned. But your focus was diverted upon the rattling sound of keys desperate for a purpose. The door to the solitary cell opened.

To the guard’s equal relief and surprise, you were completely silent on your walk back to your cell. When you arrived, you furrowed your brow and tilted your head to side. There was a pile of clothing on your bed.

“Delivered earlier when your boyfriend couldn’t visit.” Kristen flipped the page of her magazine.

“Not my boyfriend,” you murmured.

You studied the stack of fresh clothes, eyes growing wide at the scarlet jumper at the bottom of the pile. You held it up for further examination.

Kristen cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t wear that if you want to keep it.”

“That’s exactly the point, Kristen.” You peered at her over the vibrant fibers. “I can only wear it for ten minutes.”


	69. Friendly Neighborhood Burglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Musical inspiration for the opening scene is [Numbers by The Cab](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luH-oVhDpkk). Or listen on the [Power Play Spotify Playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2s4itKKso6pvGr3BPuiIx5?si=yGFzTNt5TEer48png-7boA)

Arching your back, you flexed your shoulders and gasped for air. You tangled your fingers together and twisted your wrists. Pulling down on the handcuffs at the headboard, you moaned zealously as Sherlock lowered himself to you for another kiss.

“This is, by far, my favorite use of handcuffs,” you murmured onto his lips. 

You could feel him smirk before nipping your lip and kissing you again. Your tongue glided across his as your skin prickled with heated desire.

Lying next to you, Sherlock wrapped his hand around the side of your face. He decorated your jawline with shameless evidence of his affection. 

Fluttering your eyes closed, you leaned your head back into the pillow. His lips trailed down your neck and across your collarbone. A chuckle rumbled from his chest when you sucked in a breath in surprise.

“Not, no.” You panted an exhale, struggling to maintain composure.

He paused. 

“Please. Con—” you gasped “—tinue.”

His eyes flickered down to the bedsheets covering your lower half. You bit your lip and captured his attention with an eager glimmer in your eye.

With the utmost tenderness, Sherlock traced the side of your body with his palm. His thumb barely kissed the side of your breast. He leaned over you as your breath mingled with his. 

After admiring the way his curls cascaded from his forehead, your eyes flickered to his lips. You tilted your chin upward to entrance him in a kiss. 

Sherlock gently groaned as he started to trail his hand across your chest. You yanked on the cuffs in reply.

“Yes, there!” you cried out.

Your body squirmed under the teasing delicacy of his touch, shifting your legs under the covers to encourage more stimulation. 

Sherlock delighted in your bodily response.

“Oh my…” you whimpered.

You slammed your eyes closed and freed a moan from the back of your throat. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. With a swallow, he shifted next to you. He leaned in to kiss your solar plexus.

But he jerked his head back when you yelped in protest.

“Ow!” You scrunched your face. “You  _ bit _ me!”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “But I…”

“Move with the motor skills of a drug addict,” Jim replied.

He threw back the covers and raised his eyebrows at you from between your legs. Pursing his wet lips, he gave you a sideways smile. 

“Sorry.” Jim shrugged before lowering his face to you again.

You glared at him. “No, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, okay, I’m not,” he snickered. “But are you complaining, Riley?”

Jim continued his worship of your body. But you could only silently pant in reply as Sherlock kissed your neck.

Your eyes flew open as you bolted upright in bed. Your head reeled around the dark prison cell as you blinked rapidly to recalibrate your physical senses.

“Shit,” you breathed. “John was right.”

You threw yourself back to the mattress, fisting the covers and ignoring the sweat glistening across your body. Your chest rose and fell, taking it’s time to steady itself as the sun erupted into the morning sky.

As you stared at the ceiling, Sherlock furiously scrubbed himself in a freezing cold shower at 221B Baker Street. He simply could not feel  _ clean enough _ . 

For whatever damned reason.

When it was time for breakfast, you traced your fingers over the scarlet jumper on your bed. You threw on a long-sleeved shirt. 

Dragging your hands down your neck, you gulped before popping your hands and head through the knitted fabric. You bit your lip and winced as your burned hand emerged through the sleeve’s opening.

Kristen narrowed her eyes at you. But your knee bounced up and down as you gestured for her to lead the way to the dining hall. Her eyes darted around the hallway, noting that you were completely silent. 

For once.

Sitting across from her at your de facto table, you were a single bite into your breakfast when a voice from behind sent chills up your spine.

“Well, well. Feeling flashy today, little mouse?” 

“It’s a gift,” you grumbled.

Strawberry leaned over your back. She seized your burnt hand and applied pressure with her thumb. Slamming your eyes closed, you clenched your teeth and hissed an inhale. 

“For me,” she corrected.

When you cracked one eye open, you saw the concern on Kristen’s face. Biting your lip, you shook your head and her eyes darted downward.

You yanked your hand from Strawberry’s grasp and scrambled to your feet. She raised her eyebrows and took a step back. Stumbling to face her, you teetered back and forth as she stared you down.

“No, you’re not taking this from me.” You held your injured hand to your chest.

Strawberry shook a finger and clicked her tongue. 

“Now, now, little mouse. You stole something from me. This is only penance for the damage you’ve caused.”

“Your sense of justice is a little off. No wonder you’re trapped in here.”

“I should cut up that pretty face of yours. Teach you and that boyfriend a lesson.”

She took a step forward. You bumped into the table. But it wasn’t enough to avoid her nose from nearly grazing yours. Breath caught in your throat, you started to clamor onto the table. 

“My boy,” you swallowed, “boyfriend is a psychopathic genius. I doubt you want to be on the receiving end of  _ his _ skewed sense of justice.”

Strawberry fisted the front of your jumper and yanked your face back to hers. 

“I’m sure you two are quite the duo. Except for the fact that  _ you _ were stupid enough to get caught. Give me what is mine. Or I will make your face look just like this when I tear it from your body.”

Hands trembling, your eyes darted to Kristen. She gave you a solemn nod. Grinding your teeth, you pulled off the jumper and handed it to Strawberry. Sneering, she snatched it from your hand.

“Finally learning your place, little mouse.”

She tucked the jumper between her knees before pulling off her top. In just her bra, she tossed the discarded shirt to your face.

“There. Call us even,” she sang and she put on your, no her, jumper. 

Strawberry stroked the fabric across her body and smirked. 

“I’ll get that boyfriend of yours to put his hands all over me. But until then, this will do.”

Wrinkling your nose, you plucked her shirt from your face and set it on the table. You balled your hand into a fist and sat back down. Kristen shot daggers with her eyes into the back of Strawberry’s head as she sauntered back to her table.

“Don’t be angry, Kristen.” You took another bite of your meal.

Narrowing her eyes at Strawberry, she gulped. 

“I never thanked you.”

“For what?”

She gave you a deadpan expression.

You raised your eyebrows. “What else are friends for?” 

“I guess.” 

“Besides,” you snickered, “we won’t have to worry about her for a little bit.”

Kristen cocked an eyebrow at you. But you took a deep breath and grinned. 

“Is it just me, or does the food actually taste better today?”

Her eyes darted around the dining hall as you finished the rest of your breakfast in silence.

Back at your cell, you and Kristen whipped your heads around as guards raced down the hallway.

“Cell 13! Needs medical attention!” their walkie talkies called out.

Strawberry was buckled over on her bed. Beads of sweat collected at her temples. Her chest heaved as she tried to regain focus. But just as the guards arrived to escort her to the infirmary, she vomited (for the third time) all over them.

Relined in your bed, you tossed a stress ball in the air with one hand. Kristen narrowed her eyes at you.

“What did you do?”

“Me? Nothing.” 

She raised her eyebrows. When you caught the stress ball on its final descent, you propped yourself upright and swung your legs over the edge of the bed.

“But I will say…” Your eyes flickered to the side. “My husband loved to smoke and nicotine poisoning is a  _ bitch _ .”

“Husband?”

“Maybe it was an assassination attempt from my psychopathic boyfriend? Good thing I didn’t keep that sweater.”

You returned your back to the mattress and chuckled, examining the stress ball. 

“Murder by remote control. Good friend of mine would call that neat.”

Kristen leaned forward. She tilted her head to the side and opened her mouth to speak. But she waited until you turned your head and made eye contact.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Are you bullshitting me?” she asked.

“Kristen. I’m a serial killer. All my friends are fascinated with murder.”

You tossed the stress ball to her. “All...except for you.”

She furrowed her brow at the stress ball in her hands and slowly returned her gaze to you.

“Now...” You sat upright. “Will you let me, well, my friend help you prove it?”

At Scotland Yard, Greg pointed a file at Anderson and narrowed his eyes.

“I know what you did!”

Peering over her papers, Donovan snickered as Greg marched forward. Anderson raised his hands in defense. 

“I swear, it wasn’t me.”

“I’m not a moron, Anderson. We’re missing files and I know it was you.” 

Eyes blowing wide open, Donovan slammed her folder to her desk. Her eyes darted to Anderson. But he only furrowed his brow at the detective inspector. 

Pursing his lips, Greg put his hands on his hips and glared at him. 

“I’m giving you sixty seconds to explain yourself.”

“Missing files?” Anderson tilted his head to the side. “So this isn’t about the last donut?”

“Oh my God, that was you too?!” Greg rolled his head back. “No, we’re missing files and physical evidence for three cases. Your credentials were used to corrupt all the data.”

“I didn’t, I would never!”

Donovan leaped to her feet and stood in front of Anderson. “This has to be a mistake.”

“Honestly, Anderson.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Was this an attempt to make an impression? You’re not even her type.”

Donovan wrinkled her nose and scrutinized Anderson.

“One of the cases was for…” she muttered.

Greg gave Anderson a stern look. He shook his head furiously and threw out his hands.

“I didn’t do this!”

Donovan crossed her arms and leaned into one hip. “This had to be the freak.”

“Yes, yes!” Anderson pointed a finger. “If I were going to tamper with evidence, do you really think I would be stupid enough to use my own credentials?”

Greg looked to the side before raising his eyebrows. 

“Do you want me to answer that honestly?”

Donovan threw her hands in the air and started pacing.

“When did this happen?”

“Last night around 2 am.”

“Well, it couldn’t have been him because, well, er.” Her eyes flickered to Anderson. “He was with...me.”

“Right then…” Greg rubbed the back of his neck and bore his eyes into the carpet. “There was no security footage either. Now that you mention it, this was far too organized for you to put together.”

“Uh, thank you?” Anderson glanced to the side.

“We all know who really did this.” Donovan crossed her arms. “You’re just choosing to be ignorant.”

“Hey!” Greg pointed the file at her. 

She sucked in a breath and raised her hands. “Apologies.”

Grumbling to himself, Greg stomped to his office. He phoned Sherlock and cleared his throat, waiting for the inevitable.

Examining a sample of tobacco ash under his microscope, Sherlock outstretched his palm as his mobile started ringing. 

Rolling his eyes, John sprang from his seat. He picked up the buzzing device from next to the microscope and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s Lestrade.”

Sherlock returned his hand to the knobs and adjusted the stage. 

“Already have a case,” he murmured.

After an exasperated sigh, John answered.

“What do you have for us?”

“John, er.” Greg dragged his hand down his face. “We are, we’re missing evidence.”

“Missing evidence?”

Sherlock held his breath and lowered his hand to the table.

“Yes,” Greg answered. “And some of it is for...you know.”

“Eve’s case? And you think—”

Sherlock whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes at John. He reached for the mobile. But John jerked his arm back and put it on speakerphone. 

“John, just tell me now if you two broke in here last night. And at least return the evidence for the other two cases. Even though they’re closed, I need them for our next audit.”

“Lestrade, we didn’t…” John tilted his head to the side and widened his eyes at Sherlock. “We didn’t take anything.”

He put his hand over the receiver and mouthed ‘did we?’

Sherlock swiped the mobile from John’s hand and barked into the receiver.

“The other two cases. What were they?”

“Guy who had a heart attack at that restaurant on Kensington Park Road. And the twin brothers with the peanut allergies.”

“Twins,” Sherlock breathed. “Oh, she’s…”

Sherlock closed his eyes and smirked. 

“Wait, are you telling me that your girlfriend murdered those men too?” Greg pleaded through the other line. “Sherlock!”

Pursing his lips, Sherlock shrugged at John.

“Closed cases, Lestrade. I hardly think even you need a consultation for those. As for the missing files, it certainly wasn’t us. I’ve been studying the absorption rates of nicotine for the past twenty four hours.”

“It’s...” John cleared his throat and leaned in. “It’s true.”

“Oh my God, have you been poisoning him with nicotine patches?”

Sherlock sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes. “No, Gavin. I’ve been experimenting with various patches of skin. Samples acquired from Bart’s.”

He took the mobile off speaker and spun around.

“As for your friendly burglar, I would stop looking.”

“You know who did this?” Greg asked.

“Yes, and so do you. Has a history of quite the explosive temper. Best leave finding him to the professionals.”

“Sher—”

He hung up and resumed his place in front of the microscope.

Puckering his lips, John scratched the back of his head.

“Without the evidence for the double homicide…”

“The only way they could find, or more accurately, confirm the killer of that couple is with my help.”

Sherlock removed himself from the eyepiece and flipped through a book. 

“And the other two murders?” John raised his eyebrows.

Slamming the book shut, Sherlock placed it on the pile next to the microscope. He swatted away the plume of dust and coughed before marching to his chair. 

Crossing his legs, Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and tilted his head to the side. 

“She’s quite clever, isn’t she?”

“Oh God.” 

John glanced upward. He dragged his hand down his face and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

“And the missing evidence? That really wasn’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “It was her boyfriend.”


	70. A Love to Live For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming along on this ride with me :)

Sitting across from Oliver Davies, your knee bounced under the table as you read the documents in front of you. He pushed up his glasses and shifted in his seat as your eyes scanned every word.

You reached over to flip the page. But your wrist jerked back by the restraint of your handcuffs; each hand bound to a metal rod under the table. Clenching your teeth, you hissed an exasperated exhale.

“Are these _necessary_?” You glared at him.

“I, um…” He clasped his hands together and stared at the camera.

“Why would I hurt you?” You tilted your head to the side. “It would do me no good. And if I was going to, I certainly wouldn’t...you know what? Nevermind.”

After clearing your throat, you readjusted your position in your chair. Bringing your elbow to your ribcage, you delicately slid the first page to the side.

You examined the final paragraphs and snapped your gaze to your lawyer. He flinched upon the brief kiss of eye contact.

“Is this the best you can do for me?” You narrowed your eyes.

“I mean, I, um.”

“Don’t play games with me, Mr. Davies.”

He sucked in a breath. Composing himself, Davies lowered his gaze to yours.

“You’re never going to get a deal better than this.”

You smirked. “I know.” 

Because three hours earlier, John, Sherlock, and Greg stood in the office of Remy Wilson, the prosecutor for your case.

“She’s been an invaluable asset.” Greg cleared his throat and put his hand in his pocket. “Helped us with a few high profile cases.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Helped me help you.” 

“Sherlock.” John gave him a stern look.

Wilson crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. 

“The only reason _your_ arrangement with Scotland Yard is acceptable, Mr. Holmes, is because you aren’t committing any criminal activities. Not unless you’re being framed, of course. I can’t just—”

“The only reason you have a job is because of me. Who would you have to prosecute if catching criminals was left in the hands of…”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at Greg. Outstretching his hand, Greg looked at him with wide eyes.

“Mr. Holmes!” Wilson slammed her palms to her desk. “Is this how you go about getting what you want? I will not have you disparaging—”

“It doesn’t matter what I _want_. You’ll make your career with this decision. And it appears to be leaning in the direction of destroying it.”

Greg dragged his hands down his face. He took a step forward, gesturing for Sherlock to stand behind him as he outstretched his arm.

Sherlock scowled. But John bore his eyes into him.

“Look.” Greg raised his eyebrows at Wilson. “I’ve seen it firsthand. They have a, erm, you could call it a _peculiar_ relationship. He trusts her in a way that we’ve never seen and I believe we can use that to our advantage."

“I respect your position, Lestrade. But if they’re as close as you claim, how can we trust _her_? The missing files? Do you really believe that’s just coincidence?”

“Jason Hoffman,” Sherlock replied.

“What about Hoffman?”

“Has your memory already failed you? The American government is in the process of extraditing him for the seventeen women he murdered.”

“She only…” John drew in a breath. “She already helped us catch a serial killer. Her allegiance is clear.”

“By holding his innocent family hostage. Or has _your_ memory already failed you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, that was rather impulsive.” He rolled his eyes. “But are you so committed to that grudge you’d rather imprison her for twenty five years instead of using her to take down a criminal madman?”

“Like you executed so skillfully? I thought you were supposed to be the best.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Charming choice of words.”

“Remy,” Greg pleaded. “We will keep an eye on her. We will take every precaution. And if anyone can read her, can know if she’s gone too far, it’s him.”

His eyes flickered to Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, Greg. I really am. But unless MI5 reaches out to me directly, there is nothing I can do to help you.”

“We can certainly arrange that.” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “But I wanted to give you the opportunity to comply without having your hand forced in the matter.”

“How courteous of you.”

“One of my many strengths. We’ll give you twenty four hours to think it over.”

“I don’t need to thi—”

“No, you don’t.”

Coat billowing in his wake, Sherlock strutted out of her office. Following after him, Greg rubbed the back of his neck.

“That went well.”

“Are you going to call Mycroft?” John furrowed his brow.

Sherlock chuckled. “I won’t need to.”

“And you’re certain of that?” Greg asked.

“Of course. John should already know.”

Sherlock spun around and grinned at them. 

“She was born to be a spy.”

At the women’s prison, you snickered at your lawyer and leaned back in your seat.

“The choice is obvious, Mr. Davies. I’m not staying here any longer than I have to. I’ll take the deal.”

“Very well. I'll draw the paperwork.”

Back at your cell, Kristen was sitting on the edge of her bed and examining your stress ball. The moment the door opened, you dashed inside and threw your arms around her. Her muscles stiffened. But you only squeezed her even tighter.

“I take it you got good news?”

“I’m getting out of here, Kristen.”

“How?”

You withdrew from the embrace. She cleared her throat, already missing the physical contact.

You leaped from her bed and started gathering your few belongings. Throwing a pile of clothes together, you spun around and raised a finger in the air.

“Not how, Kristen...but who?”

“Your psychopathic boyfriend?”

Throwing yourself to your knees to reach under your bed, you chuckled to yourself. You grabbed a rubbish bag from underneath and dragged out the sloshing contents.

Kristen raised an eyebrow. “Did he get you out?”

“No.” You outstretched the bag to her. “This was arranged by the love of my life.”

“Um, and this?” 

“I’m getting you out of here. I promise.”

Kristen relieved the bag from your hands. With a curious expression, she glanced inside. But upon smelling the contents, she instantly wrinkled her nose and closed it back up.

“Is this what I think it is?” 

“It’s chemist approved. Give it to them if they give you any trouble about not sneaking in steaks and fish fillets.”

“It’s going to kill them, isn’t it?”

“No!” Your mouth hung open in offense. “There’s only like a, we’ll say, five to ten percent chance.”

She raised her eyebrows at you. Plopping on the edge of your bed, you pointed a finger at her. 

“Strawberry didn’t die from the nicotine poisoning.”

“She’s still recovering.”

“Just in time for you to give her botulism!”

Kristen rolled your eyes. “How the hell am I going to get anyone to drink this? It’s disgusting.”

“Promise them they’ll get hammered. That the alcohol content is worth it. You’re a chef. They’ll trust your judgment.”

“We’ll see.”

You popped to your feet and shrugged.

“You don’t have to. But I wanted to give you the option. Just in case.” You sucked in a breath. “I hope you’ll be out of here before you have to use it.”

The next two hours flew by in a whirlwind. Your paperwork hurdled through the system faster than anyone had ever seen before. You didn’t even care whose hand was pulling the strings of the process.

Expecting Sherlock and John to pick you up, you furrowed your brow in the empty outtake room.

“I know I’m not exactly who you were expecting.” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “But I have to take care of some formalities.”

You beamed at him. “Of course, they had to send in the big guns.”

You bounced forward. But Greg held up his hands (and your new gift) to request you to stop.

With a shameless grin written across your face, you clasped your hands together as he got down on one knee.

“Oh, I never thought it would happen this way,” you sang.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

He attached the ankle monitor to you with a click. You shook out your ankle and raised your eyebrow at him.

“Only nine months?” you asked.

He popped back to his feet.

“Well, the other part of the deal requires you to leave the flat.” Greg shrugged. “You wanted more?”

“Oh fuck no. But I thought he would lobby for me to be glued at his side for a year or eternity. And I can’t say that I blame him.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“Not with this beauty.” You gestured to the monitor. “But no. I plan to be here for quite some time, Greg.”

“Good.”

Greg drove you to 221B Baker Street. Sitting next to him, you crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. 

“So how is this going to work?”

“I took over your case personally. So I’ll be checking in on you every week. With a surprise inspection here and there.”

“Making all the girls jealous.” You tilted your head to the side and grinned at him.

“Don’t make this difficult for me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, detective.”

He smirked. “I don’t think I even want to know what you dream about.”

“No.” You looked forward with wide eyes. “You certainly do not.”

Knee bouncing up and down, you watched the city fly past you through the window. After a moment of weighted silence, you sucked in a breath and looked back at Greg.

“And after my nine months of house arrest?”

“You best talk to Sherlock about that.”

“Is he mad at me?”

Greg opened his mouth to speak but you shook your head. Stumbling over your words, you scratched the back of your head and looked out the window.

“John, I mean. Is John mad at me?”

“Why would…”

“You know, for all the trouble I caused.”

His eyes flickered to you before returning to the road. Clearing his throat, Greg shifted in his seat. He repositioned his hands on the steering wheel.

“You’re going to be fine. They’ll be happy to see you.”

“At least they’re not breaking into prison this time,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Slumping in your seat, you stared out the window for the rest of the ride. When Greg turned on Baker Street, you held your breath; unable to release until the door to 221B came into view.

Your eyes traced the gilded characters above the knocker. Remembering the single trace of evidence you left, you sucked in a breath and glanced down. Months passed since you kissed the tips of your fingers and placed them along the grooved wood.

Greg opened the door for you and raised his eyebrows. Breaking your trance, your eyes flickered to him.

“Oh, sorry.”

“No apologies necessary.”

You slid out of the passenger seat. Hand wrapped around the wrist of your healing palm, you held your breath. Your heart thumped within the walls of your chest as the pavement passed underneath your feet.

The door felt like it was growing farther and farther and farther—

You were at the threshold.

After a swallow, you glanced at Greg with wide eyes. He nodded to you.

But as you reached for the handle, the door flew open. Before you could calibrate your senses, John swallowed you in a hug; effectively knocking the air from your lungs.

You slammed your eyes closed as tears adorned your eyelashes. 

“It’s good to have you home.” He stroked your back.

“Jo-John,” your voice cracked. “You’ll be so proud of me.”

You withdrew from his embrace and held out your palm.

“I didn’t mess with any of my blisters.”

“Thank God.” He put his hands on his hips. “I didn’t want to have to disinfect that.”

“Got it from here?” Greg raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” you and John replied in unison.

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” He narrowed his eyes at you.

You gave him a wink. “In my dreams too.”

“Just get inside the threshold.”

Your eyes darted downward. “Right.”

You bounced inside. John put his hand on your back as you waved goodbye. Scratching the back of his head, Greg sucked in a breath as he slid back into his squad car.

Already curious about what the next nine months would hold for him.

John patted your back with a smirk.

“Hungry?”

“Oh my God.” You threw your head back. “John, the food there was—”

“Atrocious?”

“That is a compliment.”

“I’ll get something to eat. You go ahead and um…”

He nodded to the stairs.

“Can I go with you?” You raised your eyebrows.

“Very funny.”

You sucked in a breath and held it. Looking into your eyes, John’s gaze softened. After a swallow, he covered his mouth and glanced to the side. He closed his eyes and shook his head before returning his gaze to you.

“You’re going to be fine.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Good.” John shrugged. “Neither does he.”

Before you could protest, he dashed out the door. Blinking a few times, you sucked in a breath and stared at the stairs. 

You placed your hand on the banister and swallowed. With the utmost caution, you tread up the stairs as the beating of your heart far outpaced your gait. 

But your heart leaped into your throat at the sound of breaking glass and shouting.

_Sherlock shouting._

You scurried up the stairs and threw the door to the kitchen open. But your eyes went wide at the sight of Sherlock scrambling around the table. Blow torch in hand and firing away, he scoffed at the offensive kidney at the center of the table.

“No, no! That acid wasn’t supposed to—JOHN! Get me that blood sample. I asked you hours ag—”

But his eyes widened behind his goggles when he saw you standing in the doorway. You outturned your arm and gestured to the inside of your elbow.

“Need a fresh sample?”

“The, the,” he swallowed and glanced at the refrigerator.

Biting your lip, you opened the fridge and plucked a vial from inside the door. You spun around and held it up.

“This one?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to turn that thing off if I’m going to step anywhere near you.”

Furrowing his brow, Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the blazing blow torch. He disarmed and set it on the table. 

Glass crunching underneath your boots, you looked into his eyes as you took one, two, three steps forward. Sherlock aided in closing the distance between you. 

You watched his chest rise and fall. Your eyes flickered from the blood vial and to his face. Holding your breath, you dared to disrupt the air around him as you outstretched your free hand.

Sherlock’s pupils widened as your fingertips encroached on his face. But his breath hitched when you wrapped them around his goggles and removed them.

“I needed those,” he murmured.

“What can I say?” You held up the blood. “I like to live dangerously.”

“You and John…you have that in common.” He wrapped his hand around the vial.

And your fingers.

“That and a few other things.”

Sherlock glanced at your connected hands. He cleared his throat and set the vial aside. Biting your lip, you tucked your hair behind your ear and glanced down. Your eyes reconnected with his when he faced forward again.

“Did you, did you get to look at that case I sent you?”

“Donovan led the investigation. But she followed the trail they left behind. It was the maître d'. Of course she missed that he masterminded the whole thing.”

“And?” You swallowed.

“Lestrade made the arrest last night. Paperwork is already in to release your…” He furrowed his brow. “Cellmate.”

“Thank you.”

He glanced to the side. “It was simple really. She only had to look at the—”

You placed the very tips of your fingers to his cheek and guided his gaze to yours.

“No, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me….when I haven’t done anything else?”

“Are you really going to be okay with this? We both know that me being a criminal informant will not actually help anyone catch Moriarty.”

“They believed it.”

“He already knows.”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t think you’d want me going anywhere near him.”

“I don’t.”

You started to stroke the side of his face with your thumb. But Sherlock spun around and strutted into the sitting room. You chased after him.

“Sherlock!”

He plucked a black box from next to John’s laptop and handed it to you. Examining the satin finish, you furrowed your brow and traced the sides with your fingertips.

“This is from—”

“Yes.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t open it.”

“No.”

“Or X-ray it?”

“No!”

“Alright.” You shrugged. 

You sat down in John’s chair. Setting the box in your lap, you picked at the edge of the lid with your uninjured hand. But after a few moments of struggle, you looked at Sherlock.

“Help?”

He swallowed and leaned over to remove the lid. You smirked to see your firearm along with a single photo. Plucking your mugshot from inside the box, you flipped it over to read the note.

 _See you in nine months, my muse._ _Don’t you dare go ordinary on me._

“I’ll just have to run a few errands for him. It’ll be fine.”

You set the box aside and rose to your feet. Wrapping your arms around Sherlock’s neck, you softly smiled at him.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”

“You’re not indebted to me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“This wasn’t a transaction. It was because, because...”

He swallowed and glanced down.

“I love you,” you whispered. “We’ll get him. We’ll get him together.”

Sherlock stared at you with wide eyes, fear dancing amongst his stunning irises. You leaned in so you were close enough to murmur onto his lips. His muscles tensed. You were just a breath away from kissing him.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“For now.”

“I promise you, I will always come back home. I will always come back to you.”

With a sharp inhale, you pressed your lips to his. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he closed his eyes. Unsatisfied, you leaned back for a redo.

“I’ve had many reasons to die before.”

You tilted your head to kiss his cheek. 

“But you have finally changed that pattern.”

You kissed the corner of his lips.

“And I will spend every last breath of mine loving you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Drawing in a deep inhale, Sherlock trailed his hands along your waist. He shrank the already minuscule space between you and kissed you. Finally, kissed you back.

His palms absorbed the feeling of your body underneath them. His eyes fluttered closed at the sensation of your fingertips tracing his neckline and inching into his hair.

And his heart…

Well, it finally stopped aching and, instead, started beating. Beating _for you_.

While all lives end and all hearts are broken—including his own—Sherlock Holmes let himself love you; unwilling to pretend he was impervious to his own humanity.

When you separated your lips from his, you gripped his curls to press his forehead against yours. Your eyes slowly opened, at a loss for all words, but one, for a single moment in time.

“Friends?” you breathed.

“Friends.”

Pressing your fingertips over your lips, you slowly untangled yourself from him. And just in time for John to swing the door open. Shameless grin stamped across his face, he marched in and set the takeaway bag on the coffee table.

“You two are idiots.”

“Says the man who couldn’t figure out how to turn off the television.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“I know you did something with the remote. I will figure out how to fix it.”

Before John could sit down, Sherlock threw himself on the couch. He gestured for you to sit next to him. Chucking, you obliged. 

You nodded to your lap and Sherlock reclined to rest his head on your legs. As you massaged his scalp, he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. 

After an exasperated exhale, John settled for sitting on the floor across from you. Propping his elbow on the coffee table, he cradled his cheek in his palm and raised his eyebrows at you.

“We could just get a new TV,” you offered.

“I am not, no! That’s not the point.”

“You should try text replacement next time,” you muttered under your breath.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock smirked.

John glared at you. “This is not over.”

“Oh no, John.” You beamed at him. “The adventure's just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending song for this series is [Something I Need by OneRepublic.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qKCGBgOgp08)
> 
> I'm going to finally finish Series 4 of the show and do a re-read of this story. I'm hoping to do a follow-up "year in the life" mini-series. And if I get inspired, I might write a sequel. Best place to get in touch with me is on[Tumblr.](http://melanoms.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you so much for being a part of this journey with me. This is the longest, most involved work I have ever created. Thanks for letting me share with you, for spending your quarantine with me, and for listening to this piece of my heart.
> 
> Take care, stay safe, and let your people love you ♡ You deserve it.


End file.
